Down the stairs, through the door, my quick tread progresses towards the kitchen. I reach into the cupboard and pull out the vegemite. The musty smell comforts me. I know what I’m in for next. I spread the vegemite out over some bread and wolf it down, ravenous after two nights of no easy game. I can hear the clock ticking steadily on the mantelpiece. I glance up at it. Three minutes to midnight. Perfect – almost time. I put on my slippers and pad silently into the living room, eager to get back to my sandwich. I allow myself to sink into the old tattered armchair, still munching furiously on my only source of food.
Suddenly, I hear the earblasting chimes of Sylvan Meadows church. It must be midnight. Hastily, I pull on my woollen dressing gown and clasp my hand around the doorknob. I begin to tug at it feebly.
After a few minutes the door swings open, the cool winter air slapping me across the face. I zip up my boots and step into the snow. It reminds me of a story my grandmother used to tell, about a girl who leaves the house every night at midnight to visit her friends, the forest sprites. Now I’m that girl but in a much more serious situation.
Freezing, I pull my dressing gown up closer to my face, my hands trembling uncontrollably. I can already feel the transformation taking place under the full moon. The pain is excruciating. One by one, strands of fur are slowly emerging from my arms and legs, my nails turning painfully into claws. I look out into the distance.
The others are approaching me, thirsty for a night for hunting. It’s as if a new person has inhabited my old vegetarian body, a new mind, a new will to tear down anything in sight.
I am a werewolf ….
Balmain Public School