I’m Lena, twenty-eight, allergic to small towns and cheap coffee. So when the agency offered triple pay for one weekend shift in Millbrook, I said sure, how bad can two nights be? I packed my scrubs, my earbuds, and enough sarcasm to drown folklore.
The village smells like wet leaves and secrets. Mrs. Alder, the charge nurse, meets me at the clinic door. “You’ll hear things,” she mutters, handing me a key that looks older than my diploma. “Just stay inside after ten.” I laugh, because werewolves are for late-night streams, not real life.
Friday slides by: sprained ankle, kid with a Lego up his nose, farmer who tried to kiss a hedge trimmer. Standard. At 9:58 I step onto the porch for air. The moon is a busted lightbulb, half-lit but still blinding. Somewhere past the corn, something answers my yawn with a long, low moan. I tell myself it’s a dog, slam the door, scroll TikTok.
Saturday I sleep till noon, then hike to the only café. The barista, a boy who could be fifteen or fifty, whispers, “Full moon tonight, city girl. Cousin Lonnie’s restless.” He slides me a latte shaped like a paw print. Cute gimmick, I think, until the foam moves. Just steam, Lena, chill.
Back at the clinic, files are mysteriously open. One chart: “Transformation observation, 1987—present.” No name, just a column of dates that match every full moon for thirty-six years. My spine does the electric slide. I ask Mrs. Alder; she pretends to fax blank paper.
Dusk arrives like spilled ink. The clinic’s windows fog even though the heater’s off. Ten o’clock chimes—old clock, no batteries, still ticks. I lock up, pocket the antique key, and head to the staff cottage across the yard. Halfway there, the gravel breathes. I turn. Nothing. I walk faster. Gravel crunches behind me in stereo.
I sprint, slam the cottage door, and push the sofa against it. My phone’s dead—of course—so I talk to myself like every horror cliché. “You’re a medical professional, not a snack.” The moon climbs, fat and rude, shining through the lace curtains. Shadows stretch, split, grow fur.
Knock. Not polite. More like claws testing wood. Then a voice, half-growl, half-lullaby: “Leeee-naaa, open up. We share blood, you and I.” I laugh-cry because I’ve heard that line in a dream I can’t place. Through the peephole I see a man-shape wearing overalls and moonlight. His eyes are gold coins dropped in tar. He smiles with too many teeth, and one is chipped like mine used to be before braces.
I backpedal, knock over my backpack. Out spills my grandma’s silver compact mirror. She always said, “Reflect evil, twice if needed.” I never believed her, but metal feels hot now. The door splinters; a paw, then an arm, then both. I flash the mirror at the gap. The thing yelps like scalded steel, smoke curling from its fur. Turns out folklore’s allergic to vanity.
Silence. I count heartbeats—twenty—before I dare look. On the porch lies a single cracked claw, still twitching. I bag it like evidence, label it “Unknown specimen,” and stuff it in the mini-fridge next to apple juice.
Sunday morning, Mrs. Alder finds me asleep in the bathtub cradling the fridge shelf. She doesn’t ask about the claw; she just brews chamomile with wolfsbane—yes, that’s a real plant—and says, “You passed the test.” Apparently Millbrook isn’t short-staffed; it’s short-protected. Every generation needs one outsider with the right DNA to hold the mirror. My grandma? Born here. Left at sixteen, never told me. The cousin outside? Family, twice removed, plus fur.
I should bolt, but the agency triple pay hits my account, plus a bonus labeled “hazard.” I sign a new contract, one year, full moon weekends only. The cottage gets better locks, a bigger mirror, and a playlist of 80s power ballads—werewolves hate key changes.
Last night was my fourth shift. The moon rose bloated, the cousin paced, and I practiced my line: “Smile, DNA, you’re on candid camera.” He howled, I howled back—off-key—and for the first time, the village dogs stayed quiet, like they finally had a referee.
So if you drive through Millbrook and see the clinic light on at midnight, don’t stop. But if you hear laughter mixed with growls, that’s just me, city girl turned night-light, keeping the family reunion civil—one reflection at a time.