When the Wolf Cried Twice
I wake with a start on cold concrete, the taste of blood coppery on my tongue. Dawn's gray light seeps between skyscrapers, revealing my hands caked in something dark and dried. My head pounds as I struggle to my feet in a narrow alleyway. There's a deep ache in my bones and a rawness in my throat. What have I done this time? The question burns in my mind as I stagger forward. A lamplight flickers above, illuminating crimson smears on the alley wall — handprints, claw marks — and I feel the bile rise in my throat.
London is eerily quiet at this hour. In the distance, I hear the Thames lapping and a lone siren wailing. I pull my coat tight, hiding the torn, blood-stained shirt beneath. My breath fogs in the chilly morning as I hurry home, each step limping from half-healed gashes in my calves. The city smells of damp stone and distant exhaust, but beneath it all, I catch a whiff of something foul clinging to me: the coppery scent of blood, and a musky animal odor. No amount of scrubbing will rid me of it. I rub my gritty eyes, trying to dispel the haze of last night's blackout. Ten souls… did I get all ten? A nauseating dread gnaws at me. I must have. I had to. If I failed, I would know by now. I would return home to find… No. I can't even think it.
When I reach our townhouse door in Wapping, my key rattles in the lock from the tremor in my fingers. The moment I step inside, the familiar warmth and scent of home — coffee and toast — nearly buckles my knees with relief. This is why I do it, I remind myself, inhaling the comforting aroma. For them.
“Peter?” My wife's voice comes softly from the kitchen, tinged with worry and an unspoken accusation. My heart twists. She's awake. Of course she is — I've been out all night again. I steel myself and walk in, attempting a weary smile.
She stands at the counter in her robe, auburn hair messy from a sleepless night. Her eyes lock onto me — first with relief that I'm home safe, then narrowing at my disheveled state. I must look a wreck: mud on my trousers, a dark bruise on my cheek, and I'm avoiding her gaze. The radio murmurs low in the background, a news reporter detailing another “night of inexplicable violence” in the city. I quickly cross the room and snap it off, but I'm sure she's heard enough.
“Couldn't sleep again,” I lie gently, wrapping my arms around myself instead of reaching to hold her. I'm afraid she'll feel the dried blood on my shirt or smell the death on me. “I… I went out for a walk. Lost track of time.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “All night? Peter, this is the third time this week.” Her voice trembles between concern and anger. “I woke up at 2 AM and you were gone. Your phone was here. I thought—” She stops, biting her lip. She doesn't say what she thought: that I might be dead in a ditch like those poor souls on the news, or that I might be somewhere I shouldn't be. Perhaps both.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, which is all I seem to say lately. Sorry for everything, over and over. My apologies are wearing thin; I see it in her eyes. I move to the sink, keeping my back to her as I wash my hands. Rust-colored swirls disappear down the drain. The water stings a deep cut on my forearm that I hadn't noticed in my haste to get home. I wince.
Her voice comes closer, right behind me. “You're hurt. Peter, what happened?” Warm fingers brush my arm where a tear in my coat reveals that gash. I jerk away on instinct. A hot flush of panic surges through me. Did she see the blood? Not mine…
“It's nothing,” I say too quickly. “I stumbled and cut myself, that's all.” I still don't turn around. I can't face her probing stare. If I meet her eyes, she'll see the monster reflected in them, I'm sure of it.
A long pause stretches between us, taut as a wire. In the silence, upstairs I hear the soft creak of our child's bedroom door. Little feet padding hesitantly on the landing. Sammy's awake, probably drawn by our voices. My wife finally sighs and steps back. “We'll talk about this later,” she mutters, and moves to pour coffee. There is hurt in her tone, and doubt.
I shut off the faucet and dry my shaking hands, composing myself before turning. By the time I do, she's seated at the small table, cradling a mug and staring off through the window at the pale morning sky. The distance between us in that moment feels like miles. I want so badly to cross it, to take her in my arms and promise it will be okay — but it won't. I've made sure of that. Instead, I clear my throat and muster a casual voice. “Is Sam up? I'll get him ready for school.”
She simply nods, not looking at me. Guilt slices through me sharper than any claw. I'm failing them, I think as I head upstairs, each step a leaden weight. I'm becoming a stranger to my own family. But what choice do I have? If I don't do what's required… I swallow hard. The image of my wife pale and wan in a hospital bed flashes through my mind — the way she looked before the miracle, before the curse.
“Daddy?” a small voice calls from the top of the stairs. Sammy stands there clutching his threadbare wolf plushie, eyes wide and worried. He's only six, with his mother's coppery hair and my gray eyes. Too perceptive for his age. He's noticed the tension, the late-night absences. I try to smile for him.
“Hey, buddy. Did we wake you?” I kneel and open my arms. He hesitates a second — that hesitation cuts me — then comes in for a hug. I hold him tightly, careful not to smear him with the grime on my coat. I can feel his little heart beating against my chest, rapid and alive. Alive. My throat tightens. No matter what, I have to keep you safe.
“You smell funny,” Sammy mumbles into my shoulder.
I huff a quiet laugh and pull back to ruffle his hair. “That's what happens when Daddy forgets to shower, champ. Why don't you go pick your clothes for school, hmm? I'll be right there.”
He nods, but before he scampers off, he asks in a whisper, “Mommy was crying. Did you make her cry again?” His innocent question is like a knife to the gut. Tears prick my own eyes.
“I… I hurt Mommy's feelings because I stayed out last night,” I answer softly, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “I didn't mean to. I love you both very much, you know that, right?”
Sammy considers, then hugs his plush wolf tighter. “You should say sorry to her. Real sorry. Like you mean it.”
A faint, humorless smile touches my lips. Out of the mouths of babes. “You're right. I will.” I kiss his forehead. “Now go on, get dressed.”
As he disappears into his room, I exhale shakily. The morning light in the hallway is bright and pitiless, revealing rust-brown speckles on my coat sleeve I missed in my quick cleanup. God… I strip off the coat and bundle it inside-out. I'll have to hide or burn these clothes later. Another set ruined. How long can I keep doing this?
By the time I get Sammy dressed and fed and walk him to school, the city is fully awake. London's streets bustle with commuters and honking cabs, but I feel like a ghost moving among them — detached, hiding in plain sight. Every distant police siren makes me flinch. They'll catch me eventually, I think with a sick certainty. Perhaps they'll catch “the Wolf of London” (as the tabloids have started calling last month's string of killers) without ever realizing it was me. Maybe I'll just turn up dead one morning with a silver bullet in my heart, slain by some vigilant stranger. Maybe that would be for the best… except it wouldn't save my family. The pact would see to that.
A sudden dizziness washes over me at the crosswalk. For a moment, the sunlight dims and I see her face — lined and ancient, eyes black as coal — and hear her voice rasping: Ten souls a night… or I take one of yours. My stomach clenches. But then a stranger jostles my shoulder, passing by, and the hallucination fades. I realize I'm standing on the corner long after the light turned green. People give me odd looks. I must look hungover or ill. I hurry on, head down.
I manage to keep myself together through the daily routine: drop Sammy at school with a kiss on his crown, exchange forced pleasantries with other parents, then catch the Tube to work. At the office, I'm practically sleepwalking, running on fumes and guilt. My coworkers' chatter and ringing phones blur into a background hum. I stare at my computer screen, spreadsheets swimming before my eyes. Around midday I catch myself absentmindedly licking at something on my teeth — with a jolt of horror I realize I've been tasting a shred of flesh caught between them. I lunge up and rush to the bathroom, bile burning my throat. In a locked stall, I pry the offending bit from my molar. It's small, grisly. My vision tunnels. Oh God… I retch into the toilet until my stomach is empty and my throat raw.
Leaning against the stall, I force slow breaths. My mind drifts to last night, trying to piece together fragments. I remember a scream — high and desperate. A young man's voice pleading, cut off abruptly as my jaws… No. Don't think about it. A shudder wracks me. I wipe my mouth and stand, determined to make it through the rest of the day without collapsing.
By the time I leave work, dusk is settling, painting the sky in bruised purples over the Thames. I clenched my fists the entire train ride home, dreading the night to come. Every sunset is a death sentence — ten death sentences. And if I falter… My phone vibrates as I step off the train. A text from my wife: Don't forget your therapy appointment at 6. I'll pick up Sam.
Right. The therapist. I almost forgot in my haze. She reminded me. It's her gentle way of insisting I get “help.” She thinks I have dissociative episodes or PTSD from the stress of her illness last year. The irony is, she's not entirely wrong. I am traumatized — just not in the way she thinks.
I consider skipping the appointment; after all, nightfall is nearly here, and I can feel a certain restlessness thrumming under my skin already. But if I don't go, it will raise more suspicion. And maybe… maybe Dr. Harlow can help me in some way, even if I can't tell him the full truth. At the very least, I have an excuse for being out as the sun sets — my wife will accept that for now.
I hurry through the bustling streets toward the clinic, the last orange glow of daylight fading behind the glass towers. Each step is heavier than the last. There's a prickling along my arms, like electricity under the skin. The wolf is stirring. Not yet. Hold on, not yet… I grit my teeth. If I can just keep it together for one hour in Dr. Harlow's office, then I can slip away before the real terror begins.
Inside the therapist's office, the lights are low and a diffuser mists some calming lavender scent. It does little to soothe me. I perch on the edge of the leather armchair, knees bouncing. Dr. Harlow, a bespectacled man in his fifties with a gentle demeanor, eyes me from his chair with concern.
“Rough week, Peter?” he asks, noticing my agitation. I nod curtly. Understatement of the century. The room feels too warm; sweat collects at my temples. I tug at my collar.
“Have the blackouts continued?” he presses, pen poised over his notepad.
I force myself to meet his gaze. “Y-yes. I… I woke up outside again last night. In an alley downtown. I don't remember how I got there.” That much is true, in a sense. I recall pieces, but not the whole night in my human mind.
Dr. Harlow scribbles a note. “And the episodes of aggression? Any more… uh, incidents since we last spoke?” He means the murders. He's too professional to say it, but I know he's aware of the news. A few weeks ago, I mentioned a nightmare in which I “hurt someone.” It alarmed him enough to ask if I ever feel like hurting my family or others. I managed to shake my head convincingly then, but I wonder if he truly believed me. Today, I see a guarded caution in his eyes. He might even suspect I'm the one out there attacking people at night. The thought almost makes me laugh — how insane it would sound to him if he knew the truth.
I swallow hard. “No specific incidents I… remember. Just nightmares.” I rub my throbbing temples. My skin feels too tight; the hair on my arms is bristling. The sun must have set fully by now — I can feel the pull of the night, like a tide rising inside me. My senses are heightening: I can hear Dr. Harlow's clock ticking, smell the hint of aftershave on his wrist, even the rush of blood in his veins. My stomach twists with sudden hunger.
“Nightmares,” he repeats gently. “The same one?”
I nod. “Similar.” I close my eyes, the better to lie convincingly — and also to hide the fact that I know they're starting to glow faintly amber. “I'm in the city at night… running, hunting something. Or being hunted, I'm not sure. There's blood. I always wake up just after…” My voice cracks. Talking about it like a mere dream feels like spitting on the graves of those I killed. But I can't confess. Not here. Not to anyone.
Dr. Harlow's tone softens further. “It sounds terrifying. These nightmares and blackouts could be a sign of severe stress or trauma. Survivor's guilt, perhaps, from your wife's illness last year?”
My eyes snap open and I glare at him before I can stop myself. “Guilt? Because she survived?” I say, a bit too harshly. He holds up a pacifying hand. I force my anger down, breathing deeply. The beast inside snarls at the delay. Hurry, it urges, there is work to be done. I dig my nails into my palms until I feel them almost puncture skin.
“I'm sorry,” I mutter. “I just… I do feel guilty. That she suffered at all. That I couldn't do anything until it was almost too late.” My voice trembles with real emotion now. “If I told you I found a way to save her, Dr. Harlow — something no one else would believe — would that make me crazy?”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Not necessarily. It might just mean you're grasping for meaning, or that you—”
I stand abruptly. I can't sit here any longer; the pressure under my skin is building, my vision flickering. The beast is pushing forward. The therapist looks startled. “Peter? Are you alright?”
“I'm sorry, I have to go,” I blurt, already moving to the door. “I'll… I'll reschedule. I'm sorry.”
I barely hear his concerned reply as I bolt down the hallway and out into the cool night air. Free. The night welcomes me like an old friend, wrapping me in darkness. I stumble into a narrow side street, chest heaving. It's happening — now.
Pain lances through me, sudden and scalding, knocking me to my knees behind a row of dustbins. I bite back a scream as my bones begin to crack and reform. My fingers burst through their tips with a sickening pop, lengthening into claws that gleam under the faint streetlights. I gag as my face pushes outward into a snout; fangs pierce through my gums, dripping saliva. Every muscle fiber twitches and swells, shredding my shirt and pants. A coarse pelt of black fur ripples over my skin. The agony is beyond anything a person should endure, like being flayed and remade from the inside out. But within the pain, a dark ecstasy floods my senses: the beast part of me rejoices to be unleashed.
I rise from the alley floor now on four massive, sinewy limbs, then rock back onto two. Standing upright, I easily top eight feet. My ears flick, testing the night sounds: distant traffic, a dog barking frantically two streets over, the boom-boom of human hearts from all directions. My lips curl in a feral grin. The hunger gnawing in my belly sharpens, but it is no longer the nausea of guilt — it's a physical hunger. I need to feed. I need to hunt. Ten souls. Ten souls. The number thunders in my mind, a compulsion I cannot ignore.
I lunge forward and scale the nearest building in seconds, driving my claws into brick and concrete as if it were soft clay. The beast has no patience for sidewalks and turns — I take the direct route, climbing up and leaping from the rooftop to the next like a great black shadow. The cool night wind whips through my fur. Below, the city is a glittering grid of lights and unsuspecting life. The scent of them — the people — rises to meet me: sweat, perfume, the tang of pumping blood. My mouth waters.
On a rooftop I pause, ears pricked. There — on the street below — a lone figure walking briskly, the rhythmic tap of her heels echoing. I peer down from the darkness, my predatory vision honing in on a young woman with a briefcase, likely heading home late from work. She has no idea that death is watching from above.
I drop silently into an alley and then slip out behind her, matching her pace a dozen yards back. Her scent is clean, vibrant, full of life. The beast urges me forward, but some remnant of my humanity holds the reins for now, picking the moment. My padded feet make no sound on the pavement. As we pass under a busted streetlamp, the shadows deepen, and I strike.
She notices me an instant too late — a dark blur in her periphery. I pounce, one clawed hand clamping over her mouth to stifle the scream as I drag her into the alley. Her briefcase thuds to the ground. I slam her against the alley wall, hard enough to daze. Terror fills her eyes when she properly sees me — a grotesque half-man, half-wolf towering over her, fangs bared. She trembles like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. The smell of her fear is intoxicating.
Do it, snarls the voice inside. Quick. Mercy.
My giant hand easily encircles her throat. There's a brief flash of defiance in her — she raises a hand, perhaps holding keys or pepper spray — but I snarl, a deafening sound that makes her drop it and clamp her hands over her ears instead. With a swift movement, I twist. A crack like a dry branch echoes off the alley walls. Her body goes limp. I catch the soul as it leaves her eyes… or at least it feels that way. A warmth, an energy pulses through me for a moment. One. One soul delivered.
Carefully, I ease her lifeless body to the ground. Blood pounds in my ears. I should feel horror; I should feel something — but the beast's numbness is merciful. There's only the mission. I tilt back my head and inhale deeply. The city offers up its next course readily.
Moments later I am bounding through a small park. The neatly trimmed hedges and trees of the square are no obstacle — I crash straight through a yew tree trunk as I chase a panicked man in a security guard uniform. Wood splinters and snaps under my force. The man is sprinting, panting, occasionally looking back with wild eyes at the creature gaining on him. He had been patrolling, and unfortunately for him, stumbled right into my path. His foot catches a root and he falls hard. Before he can scramble up, I'm on him. He swings a baton, striking my arm feebly. I barely feel it.
“P-please!” he wheezes as I press him into the dirt. “W-what do you want?!”
My lips peel back from bloody fangs. If I had the capacity to speak in this form, I might have answered, Forgive me. Instead, I answer with a swift claw across his gut, silencing him in a wet gurgle of blood. Two. His blood steams on the grass; I taste the air and move on.
It goes like this for hours. A nightmare carousel of hunt and kill. The beast in me — increasingly, it feels like it is me — moves with tireless purpose. I stalk the backstreets, the abandoned lots, the riverbank under the shadows of bridges. Those unlucky enough to cross my path tonight meet a brutal end. A homeless man dozing in a doorway (three), a pair of drunks stumbling out of a pub near closing (four, five), a taxi driver changing a tire on a deserted road (six). I am swift and silent death, rarely giving them time to scream. The ones who do cry out only fuel my bloodlust.
At one point, I corner a teenager in a hooded sweatshirt. He can't be older than seventeen. He backs against a chain-link fence, face wet with tears, brandishing a pocket knife with shaking hands. Something in me falters at this — he's just a kid. Like Sammy will be someday, a distant voice in my head whispers. I step closer, growling low. The boy slashes out desperately, the blade skittering off my hide. “Oh god, please!” he sobs, “Don't—!”
I hesitate, muscles quivering. His terrified eyes meet mine… and my son's face flickers in my mind. For a split second, I regain a fragment of control. I snarl and swat the knife from his hand, but instead of the killing blow, I grab the boy and hurl him aside with all my might. He flies through the air and lands in a heap of garbage bags several yards away, dazed but alive. “Run,” I rasp — or try to. It comes out as more beast than human, a guttural bark. But he understands. With a strangled cry of relief, he scrambles up and flees into the night, stumbling and tripping in his haste.
I stand there shaking, furious at myself. The quota. I've spared him, but I can't afford mercy. Every night demands ten. I've lost count in the haze of slaughter… was that six? No, seven — the older woman by the docks was seven. The boy would have been eight. I need three more now because of my weakness. I throw back my head and let out a frustrated howl that rattles the windows around me. The sound is long, primal, full of rage… and perhaps just a shred of sorrow.
The city answers my howl with frightened silence. Even the traffic seems to hush for a moment. Fine. If I must be a demon, let me be thorough. I leap into motion again, determined to finish what I started.
Across the street, in a deserted construction site, I find number eight: a thief trying to pry open a vending machine, who breaks into a run at the sight of me — not fast enough. The ninth comes soon after: a lonely taxi dispatcher smoking a cigarette outside his cabin, snuffed out with a snap of my jaws to his throat.
One more. My body is tiring now; the beast too has its limits. I feel the night waning. In the east, a hint of lighter sky warns that dawn is approaching. Panic flares within me. Only nine. One more to go or… I picture Sammy's trusting eyes, my wife's smile. No, I will not fail them.
Desperate, I scale the nearest high-rise apartment building in a matter of moments, powerful limbs propelling me upward. Clawing over the railing of a balcony, I peer into the flat's sliding glass door. Inside, an old man sits alone at his table, head bowed over a cup of tea. He looks tired, harmless. A grandfather type. My stomach churns — but time is nearly up. I slide the door open with a click. The man looks up, astonished and terrified at the huge dark figure suddenly filling his tenth-floor balcony doorway. He opens his mouth to shout, but I cross the living room in a blur.
“I'm sorry,” I manage to growl, the words distorted and thick on my wolfish tongue. His eyes widen; perhaps he hears the apology. Then my claws lance forward and still his heart forever. Ten. Ten souls.
A sigh shudders through my body. Immediately, the compulsion that had been driving me all night releases. An immense fatigue crashes over me. It is done… for tonight. Bloodied and shaking, I make my exit from the old man's flat before first light catches me. I bound across balconies, descend an emergency staircase, and disappear into the waning shadows. As dawn's first rays peek over the horizon, the transformation wrenches back violently.
I collapse behind a dumpster as a man once more — naked, shivering, skin streaked with blood and grime. The morning air is cold on my sweat-drenched skin. Every part of me hurts. Inside, beyond the physical pain, the weight of what I've done settles in like lead. Ten more lives snuffed out by my hands. Ten families that will grieve. But my family… my family is safe another day. This is the price.
Later that morning, I sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea I haven't touched. It's gone cold by now. I haven't bothered to hide my exhaustion or the dark circles under my eyes. My wife sits across from me, silent. She's been studying me for a long time, gathering courage to speak. I know what's coming — I've seen it building for weeks.
Finally she takes a shaky breath. “I called your office. They said you left early yesterday.” Her voice is quiet, but steady. Accusing. “You didn't come home until morning again. And there was another string of killings in the city last night… ten people, just like last week, and the week before.” She trails off, eyes glistening. “Peter, what is happening? I can't… I can't ignore this anymore.”
My heart thumps dully. She's made the connection, at least in part. I lick my dry lips. “It's not what you think,” I begin hoarsely.
She flinches as if struck. “Not what I think? You have no idea what I think! Sometimes I think you're having a breakdown, or an affair, or that you're some kind of… of madman attacking people in the night!” Her voice cracks on the last words, tears spilling now. “Because how else do I explain this? The lies, the injuries, the way you look right now?” She gestures at me — I'm pale, drawn, with a bandage half-hidden under my sleeve from a wound I can't account for to her.
At the sound of her raised voice, Sammy peeks into the kitchen, alarm on his little face. I hold up a hand to him gently. “It's okay, bud. Mommy and Daddy are just talking.” My throat tightens; I force a reassuring smile I don't feel. “Go watch your cartoons for a bit, alright?”
He hesitates, then nods and disappears. The moment he's out of earshot, my wife's hand closes over mine on the table. Her fingers are cold, trembling. “Please,” she whispers, “I am your wife. I love you. Whatever this is, whatever secret, you have to tell me. Are you sick? Do you need help? We can get through it together, but not if you shut me out.”
I stare at our joined hands. Her slender fingers, alive and warm, entwine with mine. Once, not long ago, I almost lost this hand to death. I saved you. But at what cost? The words choke me. Tears blur my vision. I've been so alone in this, carrying the burden in silence. I yearn to spill everything, to finally have her share it — even if it means she despises me. I can't keep it up anyway; I'm losing myself piece by piece. And what if one day I slip and she or Sammy gets hurt because I tried to keep it secret?
She squeezes my hand. “Peter…”
I make my decision. With a shuddering breath, I meet her gaze. “You remember when the doctors said you wouldn't survive? When the cancer was… winning.” My voice trembles, recalling that horrific time. She nods slowly, confusion in her tear-streaked face at the change of subject. How could she forget? It was just last year — the darkest time of our lives, until now.
I continue, words tumbling out rapid and low, before my courage fails. “We were out of options. Chemo had failed, the clinical trial was a long shot… You were dying, and I was desperate. I would have done anything. I did do anything.” I draw a ragged breath. “One night I was driving with no destination, just… driving to escape the pain. I ended up on the outskirts of the city, near Epping Forest. Somehow I got lost in the woods in the dark. That's when I found the cave.”
Her brow furrows, but she stays silent, eyes locked on mine. She can sense that at last, I'm telling the truth — however insane it sounds.
“There was an old woman inside,” I say, swallowing. Even now I recall the stench of that place: wet earth, herbs, and something rotten sweet. “She looked ancient… I-I thought she might be a hallucination or some hermit. But she knew my name. She knew your name. She told me she could save you.” My wife's hand tightens on mine. I blink back tears. “All she wanted in return was… was a promise. I didn't know what I was agreeing to, not exactly. I just heard myself screaming yes, yes, anything, take whatever you want, just don't take her from me.” My voice breaks, and a sob escapes.
Across from me, my wife is deathly pale. She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. I force myself onward, the confession rushing like floodwater. “She cured you, love. The next PET scan, your tumors were gone. The doctors called it a miracle. But I knew… deep down, I knew it was her. And then the nightmares started. The blackouts. Every night when darkness falls—”
I choke on the words. This is it. The moment before the final plunge. I look away, ashamed. “Every night I become something… else. A monster. Literally. That was her price. In exchange for your life, I have to deliver ten souls to that old witch. Ten human lives, every night.” My voice has dropped to a hollow whisper. “If I fail even once, she'll take one of my family instead. First you… then Sammy.”
My wife lets out a strangled gasp, ripping her hand free. The horror and disbelief on her face cuts me deeper than any silver knife ever could. She begins shaking her head slowly, backing away. “No… no, Peter, listen to yourself. This is crazy. You're not well.” She's retreating, retreating from the monster I am.
“I wish it was just in my head,” I plead, rising from my chair. “But it's real. I am the one responsible for those killings. It's me, Julia.” Saying it aloud to her feels surreal, like stepping off a cliff expecting to fall and finding solid ground — solid, brutal truth. “I'm a werewolf.” The word hangs between us, absurd and damning.
She presses against the counter, a hand over her mouth, eyes filling with fresh tears. She's looking at me like she doesn't know me at all. I take a slow step forward, hands raised in surrender. “I have proof. I can show you… but I don't want to scare you.” I glance toward the living room where Sammy is. God, I need to be careful — the last thing I want is for him to see. “After sunset… it will happen again. You could see for yourself.”
Julia's face contorts — with fear, betrayal, anger, I'm not sure. “Stop,” she whispers harshly. “This is insane. You… you need help, Peter. You're talking about werewolves and witches as if—” She cuts off, choking on her words.
I take another step. “I know how it sounds. But you've seen the signs. You knew something was terribly wrong… You were right.” My voice wavers. “I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I did it for you, for us, so we could have a life together. So Sammy wouldn't grow up without his mother.”
Her eyes flash at our son's name. “Don't you dare justify murder with me and Sam!” she cries, anger finally bursting through shock. “Ten souls a night? My God, Peter… how many have—” She can't even finish. Her face crumples as the reality sets in. Hundreds of lives, snuffed out so that hers could continue.
I reach out as tears stream down her cheeks. “Please, Julia… I'm so sorry.”
She shrinks from my bloody hand as if I'm already the beast. “Stay back!” she screams suddenly, voice raw with terror. “I can't… I can't even look at you!”
A whimper escapes my throat. I feel my own tears spill over. This is my nightmare come true — not the transformation, not the killing, but this. My wife recoiling from me, my son in danger of losing both parents, everything ruined despite my dark bargain to prevent just that.
Julia inhales raggedly, wiping her face. Her resolve hardens. “I'm taking Sam, and we're leaving,” she states, voice cold and certain in that way she used to get when fighting her cancer — an iron will. “I won't let you near him. I won't… I can't do this, Peter.”
“Julia… please…” I drop to my knees right there on the kitchen tile, sobbing openly now. “Don't go. I-I can find a way to end this, I swear. I'll fix it. Just don't take him away. Don't leave me alone with this…” My words dissolve into incoherent cries. I can barely see through my tears.
She turns away, covering her mouth as a sob of her own breaks free. For a moment I think I see her waver. But then she straightens, resolve unbroken. Without another word, she rushes from the kitchen. I hear her gathering things hurriedly — the jingle of car keys, the shuffle of grabbing a coat, our son's confused voice asking what's happening. I should stand, go to them, beg again or try to explain to Sammy, but I'm paralyzed by despair.
The front door opens. I manage to drag myself up and stumble to the hallway in time to see Julia holding Sammy's hand, pulling him out the door. Sammy's face is wet with tears too, reaching his free arm toward me. “Daddy!” he wails, not understanding, just knowing something terrible is happening.
I lurch forward, but Julia steps protectively in front of him. The look she gives me is hollow, shattered. “Don't follow us,” she chokes out. Then she turns and flees, our child in tow, leaving the door gaping open.
I stand there in the doorway, the winter air blowing in against my face. I feel the last piece of my heart splinter and fall away. They are gone. My reason for all of this — gone. And yet, not safe at all. If I don't continue the witch's demands, their lives are forfeit. They don't even realize the danger chasing them. I have to keep going, even if they hate me, even if I never see them again. My love must be their unseen shield.
I step out onto the street, numb and shaking. The sun is setting once more, dusk creeping along the row of terraced houses. In the sky, a nearly-full moon rises early, pale against the darkening blue. The sight ignites a familiar tremor in my gut — the beast waking. It doesn't care that I'm broken with sorrow; it only hungers and howls for release.
A fury builds in me then, overwhelming and red. Fury at the witch who did this. Fury at myself. Fury at a world cruel enough to make such nightmares real. With an anguished cry, I break into a run. My vision blurs as tears continue to spill, and mid-stride I feel my body begin to shift. Let it. The pain of transformation is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. Bones crack; skin splits to fur. I drop to all fours, galloping faster and faster through the city streets as the wolf takes over fully. I vault onto the hood of a parked car, claws scratching deep grooves in the metal, then leap to catch the edge of a fire escape and climb like a man possessed. Up, up, higher — I crave the thin, frigid air at the top of the world.
An office worker smoking on a balcony shrieks and ducks away as a black blur hurtles past him. I scarcely notice. I scale the final stories of a skyscraper, claws punching into concrete and glass. Windows shatter under my grip. A terrified face peers out from one as I climb; I hear someone scream “It's the monster!” and frantic phone dialing. Too late, too late. None can stop this monster.
At last, I haul myself onto the pinnacle of the tower, perching on the ledge high above London's twinkling lights. The city sprawls in all directions — a vast maze of lives and lies. Up here the wind howls, tugging at my fur. Or is that sound coming from me? I tilt my head back and pour every ounce of my anguish into a howl that splits the heavens. It echoes against the glass canyons of the city, a cry of pure heartbreak. In that howling wail is the soul of a man who has lost everything, and the despair of a beast who never had a soul to begin with. I howl and howl, the sound carrying over the Thames, under the glowing face of the moon.
This, at last, is the second cry — a lament to the night, a final farewell to hope.
The campfire crackles softly, orange sparks dancing up into the starry night above. Two young boys sit huddled on either side of me, their eyes wide and faces rapt in the flickering light. I blink, coming back to myself, and close the leather-bound book resting in my hands. The night is calm here — just the gentle rustle of wind in the trees and the fading echo of my voice which had risen in that last howl of the tale.
I look from one son to the other, their expressions a mix of awe and apprehension. The younger one clutches his stuffed wolf, much like a certain Sammy once did. My heart swells with tender amusement. Gently, I put an arm around each of them and smile reassuringly.
“…and that, my dear boys, is the day the wolf cried twice,” I say softly, the words lingering in the air as I finish the story. I let the book's worn cover shut with a quiet thump. For a long moment, the boys are silent, processing the haunting tale their father just told. The fire's glow dances in their reflecting eyes.
Finally, the older one clears his throat. “Dad… that was so sad,” he murmurs. I can see the shine of tears he's trying to blink away. The younger sniffles and presses closer to me.
I give them both a gentle squeeze. “Yes, it was. But also kind of beautiful, in its own way,” I reply in a low voice. My own eyes feel moist — perhaps from the smoke, perhaps from something more. “Because it was about love, and how sometimes even good people make terrible choices out of love.”
The little one looks up at me, brow furrowed. “Did the wolf man ever get his family back?” he asks in a small voice.
I brush a hand through his hair. “Maybe, maybe not. That part of the story hasn't been written yet,” I say, winking to hide the lump in my throat. “But what do you think the lesson is, hm?”
The older boy thinks, poking a stick into the embers. “Don't make deals with scary witches,” he offers.
I chuckle softly. “That's one lesson, sure.”
“Or maybe that lying can turn you into a monster,” the little one adds, his face earnest.
I nod. “That's a good way to put it.” Leaning forward, I kiss his forehead, then his brother's. “Alright, my little cubs. Time for bed.”
They groan in unison, protesting, “Already?” I just grin and stand, stretching my arms. The night air is crisp and smells of pine and smoke. Far off, a lone wolf actually howls from the depths of the dark forest, a high mournful note. The boys tense for just a split second, then relax as I tousle their hair.
“Don't worry,” I whisper conspiratorially, guiding them toward the tents, “that one's just saying goodnight.” They giggle, the fear from the story melting away into the safe familiarity of our campsite. I usher them into their tent and tuck them into sleeping bags, ensuring they're warm.
As I zip up the tent flap, my eldest peeks out one last time. “Dad, you'll protect us from the monsters, right?”
I feel a strange tightness in my chest. In the glow of my flashlight, I muster a comforting smile. “Always,” I promise. “Sleep now. I'll be right outside.”
Outside, the fire has dwindled to gentle coals. I settle onto a log, keeping watch as the guardian of their dreams. Overhead, the nearly-full moon hangs bright. I gaze up at it, and for a fleeting moment I recall that final howl from the story — so full of loss. The memory sends a shiver down my spine. Unconsciously, I pull my jacket tighter… and that's when I notice a dark stain on the cuff, like a patch of old, dried blood. My breath catches.
I rub at the stain with a thumb. It doesn't come off. A distant echo of a scream flickers through my mind, but it might have been the wind. Across the campsite, the forest is still and silent now. The wolf that howled has gone quiet. All is peaceful.
With a heavy sigh, I let my hand fall and stare into the dying embers of the fire. In their glow, I almost fancy I see the shape of a wolf's face, eyes sad and wise, looking back at me. I blink and it's gone. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was a part of me.
“Goodnight, old friend,” I murmur softly to the darkness, unsure if I'm speaking to the wolf of the tale or something within myself. Then I lean back, close my eyes, and let the night settle around us — a family safe and together, under the watchful moon that has seen the wolf cry not once, but twice.
