So there I was, wiping last night’s glitter off the counter at the Rusty Anchor, when Big Mick slams the door and yells, “Full moon crawl, kid—lock up or come along.” I laughed, cos Mick’s idea of a crawl is mostly crawling home, but free drinks are free drinks, right? I texted my ex I’d be late, stuffed my tips in my boot, and followed the parade of neon jackets down the pier.
First stop, the Fish Hook, smelled like bait and bleach. Old Sal pours me something green, says it’s apple schnapps but it tastes like pennies. My throat burns, then kinda… tingles, like when the dentist hits a nerve. I figure the booze is cheap, shrug it off, and chase it with a pickle because that’s what you do when you’re twenty-six and still pretending you like pickles.
By the third bar, my ears start ringing. Not the cool bass-in-your-chest ring, more like a dog whistle jammed in my skull. I tell Mick I need air; he grins, teeth shiny, and says, “Air’s overrated, wait till you taste the breeze on the cliffs.” Everyone howls—literally howls—and I laugh along until I realize my own voice cracked into something halfway to a yelp.
We tramp up the coastal trail, moon fat and low, so bright it hurts. My sneakers slip on wet rocks; I peel off my hoodie cos sweat’s soaking through. The group spreads out, shadows stretching wrong, like arms getting longer. I stop to tie my laces and notice hair on my knuckles—thick, black, way more than the sad patch I usually shave once a month. Must be the lighting, I lie to myself, but the hair keeps coming, crawling up my wrists like ivy on fast-forward.
Sal grabs my shoulder. Her eyes glow yellow, not the trendy contacts kind, but candle-flame yellow. “First night?” she whispers. I try to answer, but my tongue’s too big, bumping teeth that feel sharp. She nods like we’re talking about the weather. “Ride it, don’t fight it. City council’s got a truce till sunrise. Just don’t bite the mayor’s poodle again.”
Again? I wanna ask, but the word comes out “Rrr-ain?” and suddenly I’m on all fours, nails digging dirt, jacket ripping at the seams. The pain’s wild, like every growth spurt I ever had crammed into thirty seconds, but underneath it’s… electric, like I’m plugged into the moon’s own socket. I shake out my new coat, tail whacking my own leg, and think, Well, this explains the excessive ear hair.
The pack—yeah, pack—surges toward the lighthouse. I lope beside them, instincts downloading like updates: sniff, sprint, howl. My human brain sits in the back seat, seatbelt on, freaking out. We pass Mrs. Kowalski walking her corgi; she waves like folks in this town see werewolves every Tuesday. The corgi lifts a leg on my paw. I growl; he growls back. Respect.
At the lighthouse, the keeper’s left out buckets of raw ribs—baby back, not human, chill—and a sign: “No chasing joggers, ordinance 12-B.” I bury my snout in meat, sauce mixing with drool, and for the first time since college I’m not worried about rent. My ears swivel; somewhere in the dunes a couple’s making out, heartbeats drumming like bongos. The old me would’ve been jealous. The new me just wants the music louder.
Mick howls a long note that bends the night. One by one we join, voices stacking into a chord that rattles the lighthouse glass. It’s cheesy, sure, but standing there on two hairy legs, lungs bigger than tubas, I feel… home. No small talk, no split checks, just moonlight and shared frequency. I catch my reflection in a puddle: yellow eyes, goofy grin, drool waterfall. Ugly? Maybe. Honest? Totally.
Suddenly sirens cut through the song. Animal Control van screeches up, spotlight blazing. “Monthly registration, folks—line up for tags!” A lady in a neon vest starts scanning necks with a barcode gun. I panic; I don’t even have a dental record, let alone a tag. Sal nudges me forward. “Relax, first timer’s free. Just don’t sneeze on her, she hates that.”
I trot up, trying to look domesticated. The scanner beeps; she slaps a blue tag on my ear like I’m a prize cow. “Name?” she asks. I try to say Leo, but it’s more “Lrrr-oh.” She types “LEROY” and moves on. Great, now I’m officially Leroy. Add it to the weird flex list.
Sky starts paling; moon dips behind the cliff. I feel the shift coming in reverse, bones folding like lawn chairs. Fur sucks back into pores, hurts way less going back in—like taking off ski boots. I’m naked except for my boots, tips still stuffed inside. Mick tosses me a spare tarp. “Welcome to the club, kid. Meetings every full moon, potluck next week—bring biscuits.”
I walk home wrapped in tarp, city quiet, seagulls yawning. My phone’s got thirty missed calls from my ex. I text her: “Got a new gig, night shift, hairy situation lol.” She replies with a wolf emoji and “we need to talk.” Progress.
Next full moon I’m behind the bar again, polishing glasses, waiting. When the door swings open and the howl chorus starts, I grin wider than the night before. Some folks collect stamps; I guess I collect fur coats. Either way, the tips are killer, and the health plan covers flea meds. Life’s funny—one minute you’re pouring shots, the next you’re howling harmony with the town council. Just remember: if you visit the Rusty Anchor on a full moon, order the apple schnapps at your own risk, and maybe bring a lint roller. See ya under the light, Leroy out.