17. I Was a Teenage Werewolf
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
i was a teenage werewolf
ABI
CRANbrOOK, brITISH COLUMBIA
PRESENT DAY
“Are you ready for it?”
Logan’s voice is practically a purr amidst the pitch black of the night.
Thunder rolls above us, and rain begins to batter the tent we just barely threw up before the storm came rushing in. We have our sleeping bags set up next to each other, and a surprising amount of snacks laid out between us which we thankfully thought to snatch from the car.
Logan half-jokingly told me he was ready with all the camp-fire stories we could possibly need, but now that we’re effectively locked in this tent for the night, I’m actually looking forward to something spooky before we head to sleep.
I promised to maintain the ambience until he was ready to begin, so it’s a little bit more difficult than it would normally be to start gorging myself in the darkness. Luckily, I manage, pawing my way to a bag of ketchup chips and immediately digging in. Logan thinks the chips are disgusting, based on principle alone he says, but that’s just because he never had a chance to develop a truly refined Canadian palate like my own.
“I’m ready!” I noisily bite down onto a couple of chips, the rest of my words jumbled with my mouth full. “Spook me, Doctor Flynn!”
A flashlight flicks on, still startling me a little regardless of how prepared I was. He’s resting it just underneath his chin, angled to create those harsh shadows that make his already sharp cheekbones look even more pronounced. It looks like he even used my eyeliner to paint on a very recognizable style of mustache in the dark.
“I looked up a very special story?—”
I'm struggling not to burst out laughing.
“Looked up?! That’s cheating!”
“Hey, this is my Vincent Price moment!” He shouts enthusiastically. “You want a story or not?”
I giggle, nodding and chomping down on another potato chip.
Logan flashes me his most sinister grin, leaning forward as he angles the flashlight even more dramatically.
“This story takes place in a campground a lot like the one we’re in now… some people might say it could have happened not too far from here.”
When Logan and I wrote our first paper together we would often get lost in our work, only realizing how much time had passed in the early hours of the morning. One particularly stormy night we decided to make the best of the situation by trading ghost ghost stories. It’s kind of been a tradition ever since.
“Oooh, sounds spooky!” I rub my hands together in anticipation.
Logan takes a sip of his beer.
“Very spooky, you’re quite correct, and like most spooky situations, it was a dark and stormy night. A young couple named Brad and Justine had just arrived at their campsite. They did all the things one does when camping: put up their tent, stoked a big warm fire, cooked dinner–”
“What did they have?”
Logan sighs.
“I don’t know, burgers.”
“What kind?”
“Abi!” He laughs, shoving me gently in the shoulder. “I’m trying to be a storyteller here!”
“I’m just curious! What if the food really matters to the story?”
“They had regular burgers, okay? Pickles, ketchup, mustard, the whole shebang.”
“Okay, I’m satisfied. Please continue.”
“Well, satisfying you is what’s most important after all?—”
The second he says it, I’m almost sure Logan’s face turns a deep red, but he quickly shifts the flashlight away for a moment while he regains his composure.
“That is not what I meant to say! Is there weed in those ketchup chips you gave me or something? Are all Canadians secret criminals? Is this an evil scheme?”
“It’s fine, Logan, I promise. Just keep going.” I laugh, resting my hand on his knee. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure to let you know if you haven’t left me satisfied.”
Logan’s eyes dart downward, and for a moment I’m worried I may have crossed a line, but he quickly flicks the flashlight back up to his face, looking completely confident once more.
“Okay, where was I?”
“Brad and Justine, they just had burgers.”
“Right. So, the lovely couple, watching the sun begin to dip below the horizon, decided it was the perfect time to get some sleep after a long day of travel. At first, everything was perfect, and they slept completely undisturbed. Then, at precisely 3:15am, Justine awoke to the sound of something brushing up against the tent.”
He reaches to the side and drags his nails across the nylon, making a strange scratching noise.
“And it sounded… exactly like this!”
I raise my hand to my lips in mock horror, waiting for him to continue.
“Justine made sure not to make a sound, just in case it was an animal that might react poorly to being startled. Instead, she slowly and carefully reached behind her, trying to feel for Brad in the darkness of their tent. But much to her horror… his side of the tent was empty.”
“Uh oh!” I whisper “What happened to Brad?”
“Who knows,” Logan replies. “Definitely not Justine, so she waited, unsure of what to do as the scratching noises began to surround the entire tent. She was growing more and more terrified, her heart pounding, her head spinning, and as she let her imagination spiral further and further she began to break out into a violently cold sweat.”
I’m hanging on every word, shoving chip after chip into my mouth.
“Suddenly, a loud snarling comes from behind her, just beyond the extremely thin layer of tent separating her from the horrifying world outside. She screams, yanking the sleeping bag over her head, thunder clapping just in time for her to catch the briefest flash of lightning illuminating something standing outside the tent.”
He pauses, raising one arm in a very familiar pose.
“Or should I say… some one, and someone with a knife no less, ready to strike! Justine screams , scrambling around the tent, still no sign of Brad… at least until she finds his phone near the entrance. With fresh blood on it!”
“Oh shit!”
“Oh shit indeed,” Logan replies with a practiced, somber nod. “Justine, terrified, doesn’t know what to do. She tries to call 9-1-1, but of course there’s no service, and then, all at once, she realizes it’s quiet outside. The only sound is the thunder rolling away from their campsite, and a light breeze through the trees. Her heart pounds . She knows the man with the knife could still be out there, must still be out there, but she has to find Brad. So, with all the bravery she can muster, she reaches for the zipper on the tent–”
“No! The murderer’s definitely there…” I whisper. “Brad’s absolutely worm food, she needs to save herself!”
Logan simply raises a brow, the flashlight still illuminating his face with a haunting glow.
Half of my reaction is just playing into the bit, pretending to be scared, but I really want to know where this story is going. Logan doesn’t think he’s much of a storyteller, but I disagree wholeheartedly. The flashlight, the facial expressions, the tension building… he really is a regular Vincent Price.
And then, as if on cue, his eyes go wide, and he leans forward until we’re barely inches from one another.
“Slowly, she unzips the tent and crawls out into pitch black of the night. She can’t see, and she doesn’t dare make a sound. She’s desperate, terrified with no idea where to go or what to do, trying her very best not to cry. She walks forward, aimlessly, step after step into the night as she struggles vainly to see anything around her. Finally the fear overtakes her, and she changes her mind, struggling to figure her way back to the tent just as a distant clap of thunder fills the air, leading to the inevitable splash of lightning. At the end of their campsite, standing next to their car, she sees a figure all in silhouette… holding a knife !”
I can see the little twinkle in his eyes as I gasp, a tingling sensation starting at the back of my head and slowly dripping down my spine like honey. I love listening to him talk. When he gets intense, his voice gets a little lower, and even kind of gravelly.
“Justine panics, screaming out for Brad, but the only response is the sound of footsteps pounding against the ground. Seeing the man in that brief flash of lightning was enough to stun her, pinning her in place with fright, but it clearly had a far different effect on him. Faster, and faster, and faster still, the footsteps crash into the earth as she can feel the panic consume her.”
Logan’s smile turns sinister.
“She can’t see, completely disoriented by the dark, but she just barely manages to use Brad’s phone as a flashlight to find their tent. Then she’s running, lurching forward and barely on her feet as she scrambles, afraid she might collapse.” He takes a dramatic pause, holding up one hand as his eyes widen even further, almost impossibly so. “And that’s when she knows he’s behind her, his footsteps so close she’s sure she’ll feel his breath against her neck any second… But all that follows is silence. Silence, and a soft hiss of her name… Justine .”
I’m utterly captivated, staring into Logan’s eyes as he holds my gaze, completely unflinching in his performance.
“She lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Why haven’t the other campers rushed out of their tents yet? Surely, there must be someone around! But it doesn’t matter. The moment she reaches her tent she can feel the man’s knife slice through her pajama shirt, violently cutting into her back!”
Logan can’t seem to contain the grin that spreads across his face as he watches my horrified expression. We’re so close we’re practically sitting on each other, huddled together in the glow of our single flashlight.
“Then what? Then what happened?”
“Then?” Logan asks. “She made it back to the tent, obviously. Aren’t you paying attention?”
Logan just sits there, smiling in silence for a while before I finally raise a brow.
“That’s it?!”
“No, of course it’s not it Abi! I was pausing for dramatic effect!” He laughs. “Also, my throat’s getting dry. This is self-care.”
He takes another sip or two of his beer, dragging things out as long as he can.
“Now,” Logan continues. “Like I said, Justine makes it back to the tent just in time to turn around, and even zip it shut! But of course, she knows that’s not going to stop the man or his knife. His blade pierces straight through the fabric, tearing and shredding the meagre amount of protection she’d found.”
Logan pauses, holding my gaze for a few moments until suddenly the flashlight shuts off, making me nearly jump out of my skin before he flicks back on with a big grin.
“Silence,” he whispers. “As Justine waits for the inevitable, there’s only silence. She waits, and waits, and waits, but there’s nothing. No footsteps, no rustling in the distance or closer by… it’s just quiet . She waits as long as she can, keeping herself awake until she simply can’t, falling into an unwilling fitful sleep filled only with the echoing sound of Brad’s screams in the night.”
He takes in a deep breath, then lets it out, repeating the action a few times, playing it as if he’s calming himself down from his own spooky tale before continuing.
“But the dawn comes, as it always does, and Justine wakes the next morning to the feeling of rain dripping down on her. At first she’s confused, not quite sure what’s happened, but when she fully comes to her senses she can see exactly what’s occurred. The cool air blows against her face, the little drops of rain pelting her as she stares out through the gaping hole that man tore into the tent. But she’s made it. For whatever reason he’s gone and she’s made it. Feeling emboldened in the daylight, she decides to crawl toward the front of the tent and carefully unzip it.”
He reaches behind him and I hear the distinct sound of the tent’s zipper.
“Logan Michael Flynn, you’ll let bugs in!”
“Sorry, sorry!” He mutters, quickly shutting it. “Just wanted to add a bit of ambience.”
“Finish the story!” I giggle, squeezing his knee.
I realize now that I’ve never moved my hand from that spot.
Logan doesn’t seem to mind.
“When she makes her way out of the tent, her eyes immediately fall on Brad’s backpack laying out in front of her. It’s open… and as she makes her way toward it she can feel the dread build inside her. Step. By painful step. Toward the inevitable. And when she looks inside?” Suddenly he speeds up, his volume rising to match the new pace. “It’s Brad’s severed head! She screams and screams and screams again, but just before she can get to her feet, someone grabs her, but from where? From inside the tent! It’s… the man with the knife! ”
I give him a big, theatrical gasp, and he absolutely eats it up.
“She struggles and thrashes against him, but he’s far too powerful, leaning in with all his strength and driving the knife deep into her chest. His face, still obscured by his dark hood is the only thing she can think of in that moment, and with her dying breath Justine reaches up, and pulls it off to see… Brad! Staring right back at her!”
He roars, tossing the flashlight aside and tackling me to the ground. I let out a squeal of laughter, what’s left of the bag of chips dashed from my hand in the chaos. Logan’s all pink-cheeks and smiles as we wrestle around the tent, the dim light of the flashlight barely illuminating that stupid drawn-on mustache. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he gives up, the two of us rolling over on our backs and struggling to catch our breath.
“So, pretty scary, huh?”
His question is practically a string of gasps for air.
“Yeah… that was really— wait, one second, I thought Brad’s head was in the bag?”
“Oh, it was. The guy with the knife… was his evil twin! That’s all in the prequel though. I’ll tell you that one on another trip.”
His eyes are wild, his wavy hair tumbling all around his face, and without a second thought, I reach up and brush a bit of it away, my fingers gently grazing his cheek. His skin is warm, even hot to the touch, and for a split second I see him as the man I met in Toronto. All we’d have to do is say ‘yes’ again. Nothing new, nothing really difficult.
It would be as easy as breathing.
Toronto, our failed double date…
Even Aspen, as completely cursed as that turned out, they all felt right.
I let my fingers dance across his cheekbone and Logan’s lips part. My heart leaps into my throat, and I find myself mirroring him.
Nobody needs to know.
Nobody would know.
The thought isn’t just a little rattle in my head, it’s pots and pans clanging around together, so loud that it’s drowning out everything but the hammering in my heart.
And the wind.
“What’s up?” Logan whispers.
And the storm building outside.
We can’t do this, and not just because a weird part of my brain keeps expecting Frankie to roll up and catch us in the act. Logan’s moved on. He’s dating other people and that’s healthier for the both of us. What happened between us is in the past, and besides, we’re more than that now. We’re friends. Best friends.
It would be so stupid to throw that all away.
“I, uh…” I clear my throat, swallowing any number of impulsive urges. “I have some makeup remover for your fake mustache.”
Logan’s brows furrow.
“What?”
“The one you drew on?”
“Oh!” He laughs, his face suddenly snapping back to its usual brightness. “Right. I forgot. Sorry, I should?—”
He shifts his weight, propping himself up before helping me up as well. I root through my bag, hoping I’ll find something to use along with any of the common fucking sense I clearly left at the bottom. What the hell was that about? It’s like any time I don’t have my guard fully up, and there’s even a fraction of a spark between us, my head jumps into what could have been. I’m torturing myself, that’s what it is, and if I keep this up I’ll be torturing him, too.
I spot a small pack of makeup wipes poking out of a little internal pocket and snatch them up.
“Got ‘em.”
“Thanks, Shortcake.” He pulls one out and rubs it over his face, smearing black all over his lips and chin in a complete and total mess.
I snort, completely taken aback.
“What’s so funny?”
“Here,” I murmur, crawling toward him. “Let me–”
“No, I’m– I got it.” His face is bright red again. “I’m good, Abi. Seriously.”
Shame hits me hard and fast. Maybe this tent wasn’t the best idea after all. We made things weird. Maybe I made things weird.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
“What? Why are you sorry?” Logan asks.
“I… I didn’t mean to make things awkward, I’m sorry.”
He sighs, tossing the remaining wipes down onto his sleeping bag.
“You didn’t. Honestly, I probably shouldn’t have tackled you. Or that whole thing with the wrestling.” He takes a deep breath. “I kind of wasn’t thinking.”
I want to tell him I didn’t mind.
I want to unspool every single thought, every little desire that has been filling my brain. I wish I could show him that for the past three years, he’s the only man I’ve been thinking about.
But instead, I just shrug.
“Sometimes we get carried away.”
Because this is what we promised.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, cleaning off the remnants of the eyeliner. “We should get some sleep. Gotta be on the road early tomorrow.”
Because this is how we stay friends.
“Logan, I’m sorry–”
He cuts me off, reaching out and grasping my face with both hands.
“Hey. No sorries. I’m told they’re illegal in Canada.”
“Actually, I think apologizing is our whole thing.”
Logan chuckles, pressing his forehead against mine.
“We’ll just be a bit more careful from now on, okay?”
I nod, and we each climb into our sleeping bags before I grab my phone and stuff my AirPods into my ears. The plan is to boot up Spotify, put on some soothing whale sounds, and fall asleep, but I can’t help myself. I have a problem.
I check my email.
Nothing about the scholarship I applied for, or the three other teaching jobs. I could call it there, but I go to the university’s website instead, and start scrolling through the internal postings. I’ve been hunting through these over the last few months, and not finding much. They’re mostly looking for faculty and postdocs in STEM. More than likely that’s where the budget is going; the social sciences and humanities are going to have to squeeze their belts even more.
God, I can’t even think about what they’re doing to the Fine Arts.
Suddenly, in the midst of aimlessly scrolling through page after page, something catches my eye.
ANTHROPOLOGY - ADJUNCT POSITION
It’s perfect.
Somehow, I meet all of the criteria. I have a PhD in anthropology, I’ve been actively publishing, I’m currently conducting research, and I have great teaching experience.
I scramble through the process of applying; I even have all my credentials and documents accessible on my phone. Bless you, Google Docs.
All it takes is a few minutes and a couple major tweaks to my cover letter and I’m ready to submit. My finger hovers over the button, every possible mistake or thing I may have missed rushing through my mind, drowning my lungs, and paralyzing me.
I can’t. There’s no way I’ll get it. I’ll just be humiliated.
“Sleep tight, Shortcake, and thanks for being the best.”
The second the nickname leaves his lips, a wave of relief completely overwhelms anything else I’m feeling. We’re fine. Nothing’s been ruined.
I smile, still staring at my phone.
Submit Files.
Confirm.
“Night, Sunshine.”