Lycanthrope by Mackenzie Hurlbert

It starts with an itch as the wolf curls tighter in his den. From the shadows, his mate sighs and shifts to stretch a paw, her stomach bloated with pups. His snout tickles and in a sneeze, he shakes free great clumps of fur from his face and throat. Bones aching, he rises with a groan. Pain. 

His mate growls a sleepy response. Leave. 

Tail tucked, he treads in stumbling steps to open air. The night is filled with the hushed conversations of leaves rustling, branches creaking, and the rush of water coursing over round river stones in the clearing past the tree line. He hears a raccoon scramble up a nearby oak and pauses to sniff the breeze. 

The moon is just a sliver, thin and dim above, when his joints begin to twist. He releases a soft whine as the toes on his paws stretch long and slim, reaching wide like tree roots. The wolf’s spine creaks, snaps, and in slow, painful movements, bends into an “S” as he rises to stand on his rear legs. He takes an unsteady step, paddling air with his front, wide-splayed paws. He yelps. Danger. The tail, once used to warm the wolf’s nose at night, withers away from his hindquarters, leaving not even a stub. Behind him, the den’s low mouth seems to shrink.

Clouds drift above, slowing to shroud what little light the moon provides. He releases a ragged breath and searches the shadows for his tormentor. Why? The wolf’s ears, usually pricked and alert, melt from points and sag to either side of his face. The smooth, fine-haired cups that once so keenly listened for the tread of deer hooves are reduced to mushroom-like ledges of weirdly-wrinkled flesh. He explores them with his naked paw. The wolf’s jaws cramp as bones shift, breaking to overlap one another, teeth grinding closer to crowd the smaller bite. The wolf whines. Pain. Change. Danger. The whine transforms to a moan as his voice box stretches and shifts. 

From the shadows of the den, his mate raises her head, smelling something different, something foreign.

His whiskers turn brittle and break. Nails flatten into useless scales. The flesh of his nose pinches to a point, and his sense of smell dulls and dies as the world loses dimension. The wolf’s eyes struggle to focus, his vision dimming as his sensitivity to light fades. The woods around him no longer feel like home. He shivers in the cool night air.

He hears padded footsteps in the darkness behind him and turns. He can barely make out the hole there, a crevice really, darker than the rest of the shadows. The footsteps stop and in the dim light of the moon he catches the glint of two yellow eyes—his mate. A low growl vibrates through the night. Stranger, she growls. Threat. She shifts in shadow, and he sees her curled lip, the chip in her bared canine.

In a fit of terror, he howls. All the world hears is a scream.

Mackenzie Hurlbert is a horror writer with previous publications in Windmill, The CT Literary Anthology, and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her fiction has been recognized in the Writer's Digest Popular Fiction Awards and in the Writer's Digest 90th Annual Writing Competition.