Where Have All The Werewolves Gone?

Ferris, Your Friendly Neighbourhood Werewolf

The moon, that freakin' moon.

    Each time it turns full and round, all the bones in my body break. It's not as bad as it sounds, but it takes some getting used to. By now, it's about the same level of pain as having a root canal.

Without anaesthesia.

While sitting on a fakir's chair.

And the chair's on fire.

    So, you know, it's not fun. But you make it through, and when it's over, you take a deep breath, shake it off, and howl. You're a wolf, now.

    I say you. That is misleading. As far as I know, there are no other werewolves but me. Maybe there are some in New York or Mumbai. But certainly not in Middle-of-the-End-of-the-World, where I live.

    I live with my mother. I call her Mumster. I don't know who my father is, but I don't harbor any crazy fantasies about finding him and reuniting with him and finally feeling whole. I mean, sometimes, I let myself fancy that he might be a werewolf, too. And that maybe, one day we'd, like, howl at the moon together. But that's it.

    "Ferris??!!"

    That's the Mumster. Her voice could break windows.

    "Are you done?"

    She means my transformation. She doesn't like it. When I was little, she always stayed with me. I might have scratched her a few times. And bitten her. It wasn't my fault, as she reassured me. But that didn't make it any more fun for her, and ever since I'm old enough to get through it by myself, she stays downstairs, does her crossword puzzle and waits for the noise to stop.

    "How was it?" she asks. She doesn't look up. Her glasses have slid down and will soon slip off her nose. They would fall if it wasn't for the brass chain around her neck. I bought that for her. Don't say I don't care for my Mumster.

    "No biggie," I answer. It's true, I've already forgotten the pain.

    I like being a wolf. Mumster likes it too, I think. She says that love is unconditional, but that she could do without the hair all over the house and the scratches on the hardwood floor.

"I'm going out," I say.

"Do you have to?"

For a while, Mumster has preferred to keep me close. There have been some complaints.

"Yep," I say.

Of course, I have to go out. I have to run and howl and hunt and feel free. What good is being a werewolf if I stay home and catch up on my favorite shows during the full moon? I only do that when I'm sick. Then I snuggle up with Mumster, try not to pierce the hot water bottle with my claws, and let Mumster mother me.

"What is Make Amends, five letters, second a T, last an E?"

"Atone," I say.

Mumster fills in the word and erases something with the tip of her pencil.

She looks at me. Her way of looking at me is a perfect mix of tenderness and disapproval.

"Ferris." Her tone is the serious one. "Could you please not kill any sheep, tonight?"

    I always want to do what the Mumster says, because she is so understanding, and because she cares for me, and because I love her. But her requests can be unreasonable.

    "I'll try," I say, unconvincingly.

    "Alright." Her tongue moves along her teeth as she does when she is trying to make up her mind. "If you absolutely have to -, and I am not condoning your behavior. But if you absolutely have to, take one of Turgan's sheep. He cut in front of me at the post office last week."

    Now you're talking, Mumster!

    "But I'd really prefer if you wouldn't," she adds, and she's back on her crossword puzzle.

    I open the front door and breathe in. The clean, dark air of the night. I can smell the moon. Like wet hot stones after a thunderstorm.

    I turn back to Mumster.

"How come I'm a werewolf?"

I don't know why I asked that.

Mumster is biting the end of her pencil. She's stuck at a difficulty and not in the mood for an emotional conversation.

"You were a very hairy baby," she says. "Poetic Word for Spine-Tingling? Five letters, starts with an E."

    "Eerie," I say, and I howl.