So, picture this: I’m sixteen, stuck in Pine Ridge, a town so small the Walmart is the high-school gym on weekends. My buddies and me—Taco, Jules, and Big Mike—decide to throw a full-moon bash up on Widow’s Peak, mostly ’cause Taco’s cousin swears he snagged a keg from his uncle’s bar. We hike up, phones flash-lighting the trail like cheap fireflies, laughing about who’ll puke first.
Round ten, the moon pops over the pines, fat and orange like a pumpkin on steroids. That’s when Jules pulls out this crusty book she bought at the thrift, title half-gone, somethin’ like “Lycan Lore.” She starts reading Latin-ish garbage, the kind that sounds like your dentist gargling. We’re chuckling, chucking marshmallows at her, till the wind cuts dead. No rustle, no crickets—just silence, like the mountain’s holding its breath.
Then I hear it: a growl, low and wet, rolling up from the valley. Not a bear, not a coyote—something in between. Taco jokes, “Probably Big Mike’s stomach,” but his voice cracks. The trees start shaking, and out steps this… dude. Tall, shirt shredded, hair so thick it’s like he’s wearing a rug. Eyes glow silver, same color as the moon. He sniffs once, locks on me, and smiles—yep, full-on canine grin, teeth longer than my pinky.
My legs turn to Jell-O. Big Mike bolts, trips over the keg, and the thing pounces, lands on Mike like a freight train. But instead of ripping him apart, it just stares, tilts its head, almost curious. Jules keeps chanting, voice shaking. The creature’s ears twitch, then it howls—long, mournful, like it’s answering her. Moonlight flashes, and poof, guy’s gone, leaves only a pile of shed fur and the smell of wet pennies.
We haul butt downhill. Mike’s crying, Taco’s praying in Spanish, and I’m trying not to face-plant every root. Soon as we hit pavement, Sheriff Rollins pulls up, lights spinning. We blurt the story; he just sighs, says, “Third full-moon report this year, boys. Stay inside next time.” Drives off like he’s late for dinner.
Next morning, my mom’s super perky, humming while flipping pancakes. I’m still shaking, but she slides a plate over and whispers, “Eat up, pup.” I laugh, weak, till I see her eyes flash that same silver. Syrup drips off my fork, slow as cold honey, and the moon’s reflection in the table knife winks at me. Guess the party ain’t over—it just moved to my kitchen.
That night I lock my window, but the moon finds a crack, paints my floor like a runway. I feel bones itch, skin stretch, and my voice cracks into a howl that rattles the glass. Outside, the town answers, a dozen voices, maybe more. We’re not monsters, not really; we’re just Pine Ridge’s newest club, dues paid in fur and midnight chorus. And honestly? First run through the woods, wind in my new coat, I’ve never felt more alive. Taco texts: “Dude, paws or hands tomorrow?” I send back a wolf emoji. Life’s weird, but the wifi’s still good, so we’ll figure it out.