I’m Ollie, sixteen, permanently skint, and allergic to homework. Last October, me and my mates—Jazz, who’s got pink hair and zero fear, and Deano, who once ate a worm on a dare—crashed the Full-Moon Fayre in Little Wolven. Picture dodgem cars run by farmers, cider cheaper than Coke, and every stall selling something shaped like a wolf. Tourists lap it up; locals roll eyes and bank the cash.
We’re lurking by the bonfire when this wrinkled woman grabs my sleeve. She’s got eyes like cloudy marbles and smells of wet dog. “Moon’s hungry tonight, lad,” she croaks, shoving a silver button into my hand. “If you hear the second howl, press this to your skin and don’t look back.” Then she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd. Jazz laughs, calls her a marketing stunt, pockets the button ‘cause shiny. Whatever.
By ten the square’s heaving. Morris dancers jingle, kids wave sparklers, and the moon—orange and bloated—hangs over the church like it’s eavesdropping. First howl goes up: long, theatrical, probably the bloke in the fur suit who charges a fiver for selfies. Everyone cheers. Jazz howls back. Deano records it for TikTok.
Second howl, though… that one’s different. It slices the air, too real to be a speaker. The bonfire flares green for a heartbeat. Phones freeze. Even the Morris dancers stop mid-kick. Then the power cuts—total blackout, village swallowed by ink.
Jazz’s hand finds mine. She whispers, “Ollie, give me the button.” I realize I’m clutching it so hard the edges cut. We press it between our palms, silver warming like it’s alive. Somewhere close, claws click on cobblestones.
Deano’s phone flickers back to life, torch mode. The beam catches eyes—dozens, low to the ground, glowing ember-red. Not kids in masks. Too tall, shoulders wrong, breath fogging like winter. One steps forward: fur matted, snout dripping, but wearing the remains of a checked shirt I saw on Mr. Hedges the butcher earlier. His name tag still glints.
Jazz yanks us backward into the church porch. Door’s heavy, but it gives. Inside smells of incense and damp stone. We slam the bolt; something slams back. Wood splinters. I shove benches against the entrance while Deano hyperventilates into a hymn book.
Windows rattle. Through the stained glass, moonlight pools red instead of silver. Jazz stares at the button; it’s melting, mercury blobs crawling over her skin, forming a tiny wolf silhouette before sinking in. She doesn’t scream, just whispers, “Guys, I think I’m the starter course.”
Outside, the pack goes quiet. Then: a single knock, polite almost. A voice—Hedges’ voice but stretched, like tape slowed down—says, “Little wolves, let the moon in. It’s only fair; she watched you first.”
Deano actually pees a bit. I’m not judging. I scan the church: altar, candles, font full of holy water that looks seriously lukewarm. Jazz’s eyes flash gold. She’s fighting whatever’s inside, nails digging palms till they bleed black.
I remember Nan’s stories: wolves hate rowan berries, can’t count past seven, and hate being mocked. So I do the only thing that makes sense—grab the mic from the Christmas pageant box, flick the battery switch, and start laughing like a hyena on helium. “Oi, fur-face! Your mum’s so hairy she uses a rake to comb her legs!”
Silence. Then an angry snarl. Jazz grins, canines longer now, but on our side—she joins in. “You call that a howl? My grandma snores louder!” Deano, bless him, adds, “You smell like wet dog biscuits left in a gym sock!”
The door shakes harder, but the laughter’s working. I chuck candles, splash font water, chuck anything that glints. When I hurl the collection plate, it rings like a gong; the pack outside yelps. Through the crack beneath the door I see paws retreating, leaving scorch marks on stone.
But Jazz collapses. The mercury wolf under her skin races toward her heart. I slap the button spot—nothing. So I do the next stupid thing: bite my own finger, smear blood on her lips. Tastes like pennies and fear. “If you’re gonna eat someone, eat me. I’m annoying, high in sugar.”
Her eyes snap open, human again. The mercury retreats, pooling out her pores like sweat, reforming as the tiny button clinking to the floor. Outside, dawn cracks; the moon sulks away, color returning to normal. We hear sirens—turns out every villager called 999 when their dogs started crying.
Police find us wrapped in altar cloths, blaming faulty gas lines and mass hysteria. Mr. Hedges is discovered asleep in his shop, no memory, just shredded shirts in the bin. Jazz pockets the button, but it’s just metal now. We agree never to speak of it, but every full moon she texts: “Starter course checking in. Still human.”
Me? I kept the silver dent I bit out of the button, wear it on a string. Keeps me humble. And every time the moon looks too full of herself, I whisper, “Remember who bit back.” She does; clouds race to cover her face like she’s blushing. Because even a big rock in the sky can learn: you don’t mess with teenagers who’ve got nothing left to lose and a whole lot of sass.