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The moon was always full in his stories, and right behind him like a spotlight.
“Some people just aren’t fit for human company,”
This is the way werewolf stories go. Never any proof. Just a story that keeps changing, like it’s twisting back on itself, biting its own stomach to chew the poison out.
“Another thing about werewolves,” Grandpa said at last. “We age like dogs.
“He’s not a bad wolf either,” he went on, shaking his head side to side. “That’s the thing. But a good wolf isn’t always a good man. Remember that.”
Werewolf throats aren’t made for human words. Human words would never fit.
The wolf doesn’t know any better, just knows to eat it all, and fast, and now.
With a werewolf, loving and killing, they’re the same act.
When you’re a kid, facts don’t matter. It’s how hard you believe. How much you wish.
People say werewolves are animals, but they’re wrong. We’re so much worse.
This is how it is with werewolves. Even when they lie, it’s the truth.
