Under the Yuletide Moon
Copyright 2023
Christmas had come and gone, and the new year was just day or two away. The moon was full, glowing in the velvety black sky like a cold eye and casting its pale light to the forest below. Winter arrived and fresh snow had fallen just hours ago.
The man left his cabin, bundled up against the wintry elements, and made his way deep into the quiet woods. He lived alone and made these once monthly trips by himself, his way of dealing with those deadly urges that had plagued him for nearly two decades.
Far enough into the snow-covered woodland that no one else would hear or see him (his nearest neighbors were miles away), he took a deep breath, the icy air searing his lungs and lifted his face to the night with eyes closed.
He could feel it. The power and pull of the moon. His skin had already begun to itch and ripple beneath his clothes.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. Moonlight shone in them, and his uttered a low moan. His fingers worked at the zipper of his heavy coat, shrugging it off, and then tugged at the buttons of the flannel shirt beneath. Next he yanked off the plain white t-shirt and took off his jeans after removing his boots and thick wool socks.
Naked, he shivered under the moon's harsh ashen glare. He wouldn't be shivering for very long.
The man growled as he let it come.
The change. What he became at this time every month when the moon was full and the allure of the hunt, and the ravenous beast inside him, begged for release...no, demanded it. He couldn't resist it even if he tried.
That's why he came to live in this remote heavily wooded region of his home state. Because to live anywhere else would mean a death sentence to some unlucky soul who happened to cross his path.
They'd end up horribly ravaged, mutilated, killed. And partially devoured.
The man was a werewolf. And he refused to kill another human being. When he'd first been cursed, it had happened, more than a few times, as he'd struggled to understand what afflicted him, and that nearly caused him to end it. To kill himself. Put a gun to his head and blow his brains out. He wouldn't even need a silver bullet because he knew a mortal wound such as that couldn't be repaired.
But he didn't. Instead he immersed himself in research about his horrific new reality. Hundreds of hours pouring over books and the internet. Nothing could be proven as real and accurate but he devoted himself to finding answers even when he knew in his heart there wasn't any.
That's when he sold his home in the city and bought the cabin. He figured at least he could scrape by in his solitary existence and satisfy the bloodthirsty hunger without killing another person. Instead, he'd transform into the furry, clawed, and fanged bestial creature of myth and superstition and slaughter whatever woodland animals he'd find. He even hated doing that but it was far better on his conscience and sanity than killing his own kind.
Now, on an early post-Christmas morning, he allowed the change to come forth. As always, the transformation hurt but it also happened quickly. Flesh and bone were reshaped as thick black fur sprouted all over and he lifted his snout to the moon and howled.
And that's when he smelled something different. It was another night creature but yet not. It was pungent, musky, unique, but not entirely like one of the forest denizens.
The strong scent was more akin to another werewolf. He'd never come across another like him before.
Low and deep, he snarled and surveyed his surroundings, yellowish eyes narrowed to slits.
The snow covered trees around him were cloaked in shadows despite the bright moonlight burning down from above. At first his keen sharp vision detected nothing even as the redolent odor of his own kind filled his quivering nostrils. Then the nebulous dark off to his right shifted and moved ever so subtly.
A shape moved out of the trees, slightly hunched over, and glared hungrily at him with slitted yellow eyes much like his own. It growled at him.
He returned the growl, but more guttural and deep in tone. His muscles bunched as he tensed for the eventual attack. Razor tipped black tipped claws flexed. His gleaming dagger like fangs slavered with ropy strands of saliva.
The other werewolf was big but not as large as he was. And unlike his heavy dark fur coat, this one had a thick pelt of lighter fur, almost white in the moon's ambient illumination.
And there was something else. He was momentarily awestruck by this stark, sudden revelation.
The other was a female. It was smaller in form and size, yet bigger than an average male, leanly muscled, but clearly a female werewolf. The fur covered breasts and lack of a penis made it abundantly obvious.
The man didn't want to launch his own attack but would defend himself by this unexpected and not unwelcome visitor much like himself. He was wary but intrigued. And his primal self reacted in other ways as well. He couldn't resist and he wondered if she felt the same.
The female werewolf stood her ground but stopped her fearsome growls. She didn't spring at him with deadly claws and teeth.
They stared at one another across the snowy ground.
Tentatively, almost as one, they approached each other. Both remained cautious and tense yet in moments as they gazed at the other, muscles loosened and relaxed.
Fresh snow flurries began to fall around them. And together, they raised their snouts, mouths cracked open...
...and they howled under the Yuletide moon.
