I paused at the top of the stair long enough to hear the sounds. The sounds that had so often scared me into a restless sleep when I was little, the ones that had lulled me into a false sense of security, and the ones that had pushed into my dreams with unexpected force and nailed my fear with terrifying accuracy.

I heard the clock's monotone tick as each second passed. I heard the trees groan as the howling wind contorted their branches. I heard the floorboards moan as I unconsciously shifted from toe to heal. I heard my heart beat accelerate, and then stop suddenly as some other outside sound forced itself threw the broken window. I heard my teeth chatter in the crisp October cold.

Glancing out that same old window, I stared stonily at the full moon that seemed to taint the perfect ugliness of the house - the town even - that I lived in. The moon's outline was sharp against the inky blue sky, but the dark forest below it seemed to capture all the light and warp it. The light shone through the trees with a hardly noticeable green tint that spilled threw the window and pored across the wooden stair case before me.

I reluctantly tore my gaze away from the moon. Making my way down, I was careful not to distribute my weight and never step on the centre of the boards. Something scurried on the first floor, surprising me enough to send a jolt of horror through my stomach. I teetered for a second, and then grabbed the banister for support, only to cause another creak to rip through the air.

I stayed in that spot for what seemed like forever. I had my eyes locked on the closed door upstairs that was the entrance to my father’s room.

My father and I usually avoided each other at all cost; the sight of the other pained each of us in our own ways. I reminded him too much of my mother, who left us when I was eight for no reason other than she wanted to. He reminded me of the future I could have had, if he hadn't turned to drinking and lost his job during his many years of mourning. I worried about him. My father was a good man, and looking back, I never understood why he would want my mother back. She was low. She cheated and lied. She broke his heart, stole half of it, and threw the other half back at him - it wasn't good enough even for her low standards. She was in the wrong here - my dad was a good man.

I doubted he could ever be now.

I finally realised standing there would waste what time I did have and continued my tedious decent down the weathered stairs. Once at the bottom, I precariously shifted my way through the piles of junk that lay across the floor. I reached the door, pulled it open, and found myself outside.

It felt as if the dream had shattered.

I stood, pressed against the house thinking.

I remembered all that had happened sense my mother left. I had never had many friends, but after she was gone, I cut myself from them. I didn't recall why. I remembered how for about a year, I spoke to next to no one, how my teachers gave up on me, and how I slowly was given the label "the freak."

The day I turned nine I saw Fenrir get in trouble for shop lifting from Mr Wilson's shop. He had gotten caught, but I had interrupted, telling Mr Wilson that I had told Fenrir to show me what he was to buy before he bought it, as I was to split that candy with him, but I had gone outside. Mr Wilson had grudgingly let him go, but only after I had paid for it.

I remembered shoving the candy at Fenrir, having no idea why I had done that. He trotted after me, telling me that he was grateful and he would pay me back and, by the way, he was Fenrir Greyback and he didn't have any friends either.

That last line had stopped me. I had turned to the boy who was two years older than me and told him that I did have friends. When he asked who when we both knew I was lying, I stopped, thought, and told him simply, "You."

Then I told him I was Lynnette Brewer, and even though I was nine and he was eleven, but he might as well get over it because now it’s official. We were friends no matter what because I had just saved him.

He hadn't said anything back.

From then on, we had had our own little form of symbiosis; we were the two town freaks and had to stay together. Fenrir was forever getting himself in trouble, and I was forever getting him out of it. No matter how much I scolded him and begged him not to do whatever he had done again, we both knew he would. That was part of the deal. He was my friend, or at least someone I could talk to, so I had to get him out of trouble.

Then summer had ended, and he was gone. Apparently he had gone to some boarding school for "freaks." I had asked my father if I could go.

"You can't," he had told me.

I had looked quizzically at his tired face. "Why not?"

"Because you aren't a freak," he sighed.

"Well then what am I?"

"I don't know," He had shaken his head, not meeting my eye.

"What am I?" I exclaimed, growing angry at him.

He had finally looked at me, and in a sad, tired voice he had said, "Not normal."

So there I was, nine years old, already labelled not normal. I wasn't like Fenrir, the freak, but I wasn't like the rest of my town either. I was alone, stuck in the middle, not normal.

I had trudged through every school year, my only consolation being the knowledge that the summer was nearer with every day.

Each summer, I would sit and talk to Fenrir for hours. I had rattled on about random things, revelling in the fact that he listened, even if he had not said much in return. I remembered dreading the coming of fall, hating to see him go, hating to be alone again.

Then, when I was twelve, and Fenrir was fourteen, he came home different. He said that something had happened over winter break or something. I remembered how he talked even more rarely, if that was possible. I think the most noticeable change was the lack of trouble he got into. I remembered being scared: for his health, and for the fact that he might not need me, that he might leave me.

He didn't. I came to terms with his new condition, and life went on.

I peeled myself from the wall of the house, my mouth dry and my stomach full of butterflies that angrily gnawed at my interior. I looked at the watch on my wrist; it was almost eleven thirty. I began to make my way towards the forest, my pace altering its speed with every few steps.

I knew the legends. I knew that there was no way any of it could be true, but still, my entire being rebelled against what I was about to do.

The other townsfolk believed in it. Every shutter was closed, every door locked, and every child safe in bed. Every father probably slept with a gun nearby, if by strange circumstances he was not awake.

I began to pick up my pace as I thought.

I knew the legends. I knew why no one was out tonight. I knew why there was a lack of students in school the night after a full moon, and why those there were nearly asleep in their seats.

I had been told the same story that everyone in the town knew since they were old enough to understand. I knew.

I told myself I didn't believe. Werewolves? Is that really the best a few frightened townsfolk could come up with? And could that tale really be from the sixteen hundreds? Is our town even that old?

Sure, if a person asked anyone on our street, they would swear that there were werewolves in the forest. I just refused to believe it. There was no such thing as a werewolf, and there never would be.

I began to trot. I pulled my mind away from werewolves and began to ponder why people avoided me. My looks probably paid a great part of it. I had unfortunately inherited my mother’s untrusting eyes, the kind that never stopped squinting. I think they're blue. I didn't care what I looked like. I didn't care one bit. That’s why I broke all the mirrors in the house. So I didn't have to wake up and see my ugly face every morning. Fenrir told me I wasn't ugly; I was just homely. I asked him what the difference was.

"Homeliness," he told me, "is when a person is not exactly pretty, but looks like a reminder of something good. Like a home."

Bull. I was short and pale. I had long brown hair that I only cut when it brushed the backs of my knees. Then it itched and I'd cut it to my elbows. It was scraggily and dry, and I got made fun of behind my back for it.

Or maybe I wasn’t trusted because I was friends with Fenrir. People hated him. They knew for a fact he was different; why else would he go to a freak school? So, by association, I was a freak.

Maybe it was my silence, my cold demeanour, or my quick movements that tended to startle people.

Of course, my whole town wasn't just a black abyss of uncaring and un-empathetic people. There were a few who painfully tried to include me in conversation. Some of them seemed to uphold the misconception that I was just shy. They didn't understand that shy was a physical barrier; quiet is a conscious choice. Most of these people where either elderly or overly optimistic twelve-year-olds. Probably the only one who I even felt was even half way worth my time was Clara, who seemed to understand that "the freak" needed space.

The moon was too bright, far too bright. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be even considering this. There was no such thing as werewolves, and if there was I shouldn't be - No werewolves! I chided myself. There are absolutely no such things as werewolves, it's impossible and silly and...

The forest loomed before me. The wind pulled my hair across my face, and the crisp chill raised goose-bumps on my arms. I stared stonily into the forest beyond me, trying without success to cut off all feeling, all emotion, and all things that tied me to the pit of my stomach, which was now threatening to overturn itself. I clenched my fingers together, wishing I had something to hold onto, even if just a rock, but I couldn't bring my legs to bend. I felt fear run threw me, knowing I had to go.

If I didn't, would there even be a reason to live if what I feared come to pass?

Their conversation replayed on a continuous loop in my head. Two days earlier, I had dashed to see Fenrir after I had heard a particularly nasty piece of gossip about Mrs Wilson that needed sharing. But as I had rounded the corner, I chanced across Fenrir and his father talking in angry whispers.

Fenrir, Fenrir, we just don't have the money.

But... there must be....

There isn't.

But I can't! I won't! What if I...

You won't remember it in the dawn.

I'll go somewhere. Anywhere. I'll go to...

How would we explain it?

I closed my eyes, and put my chilled fingers to my warmer face. I was far too selfish for my own good. If I didn't want a companion so bad, then none of this would be a worry to me. I would be asleep in my bed, safe, if not entirely warm.

...I don't know.

Nothing will happen out there. Absolutely Nothing.

But...

Nothing will do you hear me, Fenrir?

Yes, yes, father.

So, on the full moon you will go into the forest?

Yes... but what if some child wandered -

They will not.

I wasn't supposed to hear that conversation, of that I was sure. Other than that, I was uncertain of all but the fact that right now, Fenrir was in the forest, and he was in danger.

I had to save him.

With that thought in my mind I stepped into the forest, and into my nightmare.

The forest was void of life, but was saturated with the moans and creaks and snaps of the brittle breeze that swerved around the branches. Every small movement of the trees and bushes made my heart jump and with every sound a gasp constricted in my throat. I walked for what seemed like forever, but must have really only been a few minutes. I followed no clear path, and felt as if I was going in circles. Everything looked the same: darkness, trees, bushes, and more darkness.

My fingers were frozen; I shoved them under my arm pits in a feeble attempt to warm them. The wind was now blowing directly into my face, making it near impossible to gather the will power to force my eyes open more than a squint. I blew out long breaths from my mouth directed upwards to my nose in a foolish attempt to keep it warm. The only positive was that the wind kept my hair out of my face, even if it made me feel like I was trudging through water.

I was numb. My body was numb to the cold, and my consciousness was soon numb to the fear. All that ripped through my mind was finding Fenrir and getting out. I wiped my eyes with my elbow, causing me to stumble into a bush. I fell on my bottom and sat there for a minute, unwilling to get up.

That was when I heard it. A loud sound from somewhere to my right. It sounded as if some large animal - or human! - was walking, or running, or moving over there.

I pushed myself to my feet; my heart beating too fast in my ears. I scraped my hand on a rock getting up, but ignored the pain, and threw myself in the direction of the sound. I stumbled to the source, and saw what I had been longing to see.

"Fenrir!" I cried, throwing myself at him, but before I actually did hug him, I restrained myself.

He was facing the other direction, and when he whirled around, I saw the horrified expression plastered across his face and cringed.

"What?" he asked, then he paused and stared at me. He shook his head, once, twice, and then screamed. "NO!"

I took a step back. "What?"

"NO!" he howled again. "YOU HAVE TO LEAVE! GO!"

"No!" I cried as forcefully as I could, which wasn't much, as I was still stunned by his anger. "Fenrir, you have to leave, now! Its full moon and you know -"

"GET! NOW!" he was shaking. He pressed his hands against his face. "Lynnette, go. Now." he snarled.

I lifted my head to look him in the eye and said defiantly, "No. I am not letting my only friend get hurt."

"Lynnette, please, I will be fine. You have to... you must..."

"No. I will not leave unless you come with me."

He growled, his brown hair stood on end, and his face was covered with sweat. "Leave. Now. If you know what's good for you."

I blinked. "What? Am I not good enough for you too now? Are your friends at that freak school so much -"

"I DON'T HAVE ANY FRIENDS THERE AND THAT'S WHY YOU HAVE TO LEAVE!" he roared.

I was tempted to take a step back, but I didn't. "What if you get hurt? What would I do? What if you don't come back?"

He sighed impatiently. "Lynnette, nothing will happen to me. I promise. And really, do you believe in werewolves now? That's not like you..."

I scowled. "I do not believe in them. They are children's tales."

He smiled, but the concerned intensity never left his eyes. "There you have it. I'll be fine, now go, quick."

I sighed. "Why? Why is it so important - ?"

"LYNNETTE!" He clenched his hands. "Please!" he panted. "I'll explain in the morning. Go!"

I bit my lip, and shook my head. I would not leave him there.

He started to say something, but an involuntary moan cut him off. He stepped back from me, shaking his head. I stepped forward, confused.

Fenrir hunched over, falling onto all fours while puking. I threw myself at him, trying to help in whatever small way I could, but he snapped at me.

It happened so quickly; I couldn't believe it actually was happening.

I took a step back, and then another.

The creature in front of me snarled. It was no longer Fenrir, but some sort of man-wolf.

Werewolf.

My head pounded. I shook. My throat was dry, but I felt my stomach threaten to spill out of it. I couldn't move, but I had too, and this wasn't possible, but there he was staring at me with yellow eyes, and this was the reason....

My breath came out it uneven puffs. I was frozen, but moving far too much, and the wolf - Fenrir! - was circling me. My eyes were too dry. I hurt. I shook. My mind raced.

The wolf snarled, barring its long yellow teeth at me. I cringed, and the wolf snapped. I closed my eyes waiting it to pounce, and tears began to roll down my cheek.

There was a loud crack in the distance, and his head swerved around.

Without thinking, I ran.

But in the end, it didn’t really matter that much.

---

He stares at Clara, horror struck.

"She... She can't be!"

"Dead," she cries. "Gone. Dead!"

He feels as if everything is diluted. Feeling isn't feeling. Darkness - darkness and emptiness fill him. He isn't here nor there; he is beyond both. He doesn't listen as he realizes what has happened.

He is alone, and it’s his fault. She is gone. There is no reason. But there is anger and hatred. Self loathing and anguish fill him. He can't move; he can only stare blankly ahead as horror rushes through him. He did the unthinkable. He did what his father had promised would never happen. He hurt - killed - his own friend, his only friend, his best friend. He has no recollection of it, but this makes no difference. She is gone. She is gone. She is gone.

Lynnette! Lynnette is dead. He had killed her. He had killed her.

He wants to be numb. He doesn't want to feel anything. He wants to nod to the sobbing Clara and the mute townsfolk and then be on his way. He doesn't want to care. He doesn't want to be this dependent on Lynnette, the only person who had ever even tried to talk to him. She was the one who had forced him to talk. She was the one who acted as if she didn't care but was so uncertain and lost that sometimes he just wanted to shake her till she realized that someone did need her. He needed her. He still needs her.

And she is dead. She is dead because of him. He has to get out of there. He shakes his head and begins to run. He runs as fast as he can, half wanting to fall and break every bone during the process. He can't face Clara, or anyone. A voice calls out to him, but he continues on his reckless path.

He is in the forest. The cursed forest that stupid Lynnette had to go into because she had to be brave. He bets that she thought she could prove there was no such thing as werewolves. So she could prove that there was no magic in the world.

He stops abruptly. There is the truth in it though. There should not be magic in the world. Magic is what made him what he is - a monster. Magic is the reason for his loneliness. It is the reason he has - had - to leave his only friend every year. It is the reason she is now dead. It is the reason he could never make any other friends as he grew up.

Magic is impossible and implausible. It should not be. It is the cause of pain. It is the cause of suffering. It is the cause of all bad things. Magic is the enemy.

He turns, his mind made, and storms back into the town.