Will Curl

Werewolves

Grandma told me that her Uncle Woycjek had been a werewolf. She held me tightly on her lap and told me about how, one summer night when the moon was full, a terrible howling was heard all over the valley. People cowered in their beds, she told me. In the morning, four of rancher Svoboda’s sheep were found half-eaten.

There were dishes smashing in the kitchen. My father was shouting. I squirmed in Grandma’s arms, trying to break loose.

Uncle Woycjek realized he was a werewolf, she said, because he woke up the next morning with dried blood all over his hands. He was horrified at what he’d become, horrified at what would happen if anyone else discovered what he was. He fled the valley that same day.

My mother started screaming. I squirmed more. Grandma squeezed me tighter. He ran away because he didn’t want to hurt anyone he loved, she said. He was a monster, but inside he was the same man he’d always been.

My mother came out of the kitchen with her eyes streaming, her left cheek bright red. The back door slammed. The car’s engine started.

The same man he’d always been, she said, rocking back and forth, still holding me tightly. The same man he’d always been.

Will Curl is a Lecturer in English at the University of Wisconsin-Fox Valley and is a past editor of Fox Cry Review. His short fiction appears or is forthcoming in Hayden's Ferry Review, Karamu, 55 Words, Juked, and Ghoti.