5 Signs Your Son Is A Werewolf
You’ve married the girl you dreamed of day and night, and everything is better than you’d expected it to be.
One night, you wake up from deep sleep — a deepness that comes from a content marriage — finding you need to pee. Coming back from the bathroom you feel more awake than when you left the bed. Heat spreads and you begin to feel a throb in you pants. You decide to wake up your wife.
You reach the bed, but in the light of the full moon, the bed lays empty. You search the house, but she is nowhere to be found. You don’t find a note, either.
You call all those who matter to her — a short list. But no one answers so late in the night. You worry, sitting on the armchair next to the phone, as the night passes. You worry. In the silence of the house, your mind drifts from ceaseless sleep to worrisome consciousness. You hear sounds, but you don’t stir. Somewhere, in the distance, you hear an animal howl.
You wake up next morning, back in your own bed, the smell of delicious breakfast wafting up from the kitchen. You follow it to find your wife happily buzzing around the kitchen, cooking breakfast.
She smiles as she sees you. “I thought you’d never wake up. You sleep like a baby!”
You don’t reply. Was it all a dream?
She serves you breakfast with a kiss.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” you manage to ask her.
“Oh, no. I was up early — I’ve had my fill,” she smiles wolfishly.
It’s that day. The day you take on the responsibilities of a father. The day you bring your newborn son home.
You’re driving back home with your wife who holds the boy like he is her life — her cub.
Her cub? Where did that word come from?
You remember the last few days, the night of the delivery, the difficulties the doctors had and the sleepless white walls of the hospital. The water broke sometime in the afternoon but the boy didn’t agree to come out until night. When he did, somehow, you knew that outside, in the night sky, the moon was full.
Your wife held your hand during the delivery. The marks were still there. No amount of tranquillisers had worked on her. You remember how she howled as she pushed, like a wounded animal. But you convinced yourself that was normal. Right? Right?
The doctor looked relieved as he handed you your son. He was wet and bloody and small, and the umbilical cord had just been cut. He didn’t cry, though. He only looked at you with a certain curiosity.
His eyes, at first, were yellow, but he blinked and they turned into a mellow brown. Just like yours. Must have been a trick of the light, you thought. You hoped.
You reach home and step out of the car, opening the door on the other side for your wife and son. As soon as the two step out, the dogs of the entire neighbourhood begin howling, and your son, for the first time since being born begins to cry.
“What’s wrong with them?” you ask no one in particular.
Your wife talks to your son instead, purring softly into his ear. You hear what she says, “Don’t worry little one. They won’t harm you, they can’t. They are only scared. We’ll show them their place. I promise.”
You gulp as you hear those words. There was venom in there. Venom of a mother.
Once the pregnancy is over, the disappearances on the full moon begin anew. That’s when you begin following the local news, for a hint or a clue to know if what you suspected was right. You learn that most of the local dogs have mysteriously vanished, and large shadows of some unknown beast have been rumoured. No one names these shadows but you have a vague idea.
Somewhere deep inside you, you know what those shadows are, but fear and a need to maintain a happy family keep you mum. You hide it, deep-deep inside yourself and begin to throw a blind eye to those monthly disappearances.
12 years later, even your son begins to disappear into the nights of the full moon. You had expected it. A mother and her son need their bonding time too, you argue, with yourself.
Your son grows up and you learn he’s a lot like you. On most days.
He reads and is quiet like you. You see a lot of yourself in him. Over the weekends, you sit and discuss the latest novel he has read, or on days when you are feeling unusually open, you’ll let him read some of your works in progress. It’s a quiet time, between father and son, and while you look at him reading, pouring over your dusty words, he looks almost normal. Almost.
But he has a fondness for raw meat that surpasses even your wife. She happily feeds him saying as a growing boy he needs it.
You don’t argue. You dare not.
It’s a family dinner, your son is now a young man, in his prime, taking his parents out for dinner with his own hard earned money. You feel so proud of him.
You’re an old man now, and you feel complete in that moment, with your wife by your side and your son before you, a model for all the sons in the world.
You finally decide to ask. You’re family after all.
“Now, tell me the truth. You both are werewolves, right?” You look at your son then your wife. “Right?”
They look at each other eyes glinting and burst out laughing.
“Where do you come up with such stuff, Dad?”
Your wife combs your hair with her long fingernails, “Oh, dear, even at your age, your imagination has not deterred one bit.”
You sit there, stunned, and then let out a little laugh. “Hehe. Just kidding.”
They both laugh some more and your son places the order for the night.
Raw and bloody steaks for mother and son and a large portion of greens for you. You look out the window as the moon appears from behind the curtain of clouds, almost full, but not completely. Not tonight.
Akshay G. is a fictional writer who lives in a made up world. He is currently seeking a rogue pigeon to infiltrate the pigeon army that is amassing under our very noses.