‘[Foreword]
Humankind disbelieves things they cannot accept or explain logically. They label a true vision ‘dream’; genuine event ‘legend’. This is my true life story. Enjoy.’

Surely, werewolves are only superstitions?

‘[Hour before Dawn]
A nine-year-old flees. Above him, the sky is a swathe of darkness; the huge moon glows orange-red. He is Malin.’

I grin. ‘Malin’ means ‘little war-mighty one’.

‘Malin has no idea where he is, nor what he’s running from. Something wants him, and he won’t escape it. It pursues relentlessly. He is tiring quickly, and it knows. Soon, eyes appear, glowing in the strange light – blue, green, yellow, golden brown; even red. Panic. As the eyes close in, he realises that there was a whole pack. An eerie howling begins, and then a pair of red eyes leap. In the queer moonlight, he sees that it is a huge black wolf before it slams into his chest. Terrible agony. Tearing flesh. There is a ferocious snarl as another pair of cyan eyes spring, before the world disappears.’

I can’t banish the memory. Was I mad? What if someone actually believed?

‘Much later, Malin wakes. There is no light. It is the hour before dawn; the darkest hour. Fire burns across his torso. He tries to move, only to find his skin covered with a thin, dry substance that crumbles when he bends. Time passes. When he thinks there is enough light to see, he raises his arm. Torturous flames dance along it, and he sees a layer of reddish-brown, which turns to powder. A hoarse cry releases itself as he realises it is blood.’

I wriggle uncomfortably in my seat. Fire seems to sear across my chest. Blood appears to coat my arms. Sickened, I sprint to the toilets. I throw up.
When the bell rings, I force myself to walk leisurely.

The next evening, I shut myself away and lose track of time, only aware that everybody eventually falls asleep. ‘Finally!’ I strip and escape through the window. The landscape is bathed in strange, ghostly moonlight. I step into the silky whiteness.
A wolf’s nose erupts from my face while ears creep up the side of my head. Bones shorten, lengthen, rearrange themselves. Body parts squelch into new positions. A tail sprouts from my spine. I fall onto all fours. My fingers meld into paws, and a wave of dark fur washes over me.
The wolf basks in the simplicity of life all night, hunting and gorging on prey.

“A true story?” I ask. Matthew merely looks at me. His expression says, ‘What do you think?’
“You’re Malin.”

I return the story, deciding that I will discover for myself.