Dim lights cast long shadows across the whiteboard that Halloween night in Dr. Harlan Crowe's Gothic Literature seminar.The autumn rainfall and the room buzzed with that restless energy everyone gets when the air feels charged.
Professor Crowe's silhouette loomed at the lectern like something out of one of his stories, his gravelly drawl cutting through the murmurs as he dove into the Black Hills Wolfshade myth from 1889.
"Legend claims that on November 12th, beneath a gold-scarred moon, a nine-foot nightmare tore through Deadwood Edge," he said, pacing the front. "Twenty-four lives shredded into the pine needles. Tracks shifted from boot to claw. Silver didn't bite; only the wanagi remained." His eyes scanned us, lingering a beat too long on Sean in the back row.
Sean sat there, his hoodie pulled low, silent as stone, his lean frame swallowed by shadows. I wondered why he always seemed so on edge.
"Why does the myth endure?" Crowe tapped his marker. "Because the werewolf mirrors settler guilt—a beast born of gold-lust and blood-soaked soil. Americanized Gothic: lunar frenzy in the snow. Beautiful, terrifying... and entirely fabricated. Fiction bites deep, but it doesn't leave bruises. Homework: read *American Werewolves*. Questions?"
David grinned from the middle row. "Professor, if the Wolfshade shows up tonight, can we skip the essay? I'd rather not do lycan homework while being eaten!"
Laughter rippled through. I nudged Marie in the front row, my eyes sparkling with mischief. "Okay, but real talk—if the tracks went from boots to claws, does that mean it started as a prospector who forgot his silver shoelaces?"
Marie snorted, stifling a giggle. "Totally! Or maybe he was just hangry after too much moonshine. 'Gold-lust' my foot—dude needed a snack and a pedicure. Pass the werewolf Weight Watchers pamphlet."
Mark leaned back, sneering. "Oh, please. You gullible furries actually believe this campfire crap? It's not a horror movie."
Crowe's face went dry. "Mark, stay after. Write five hundred words on why sarcasm is a poor shield against a predator. Dismissed."
Chuckles erupted as we filed out, backpacks slung—Marie and I were still whispering about "lycan loafers." I was giggling with her when I glanced back and saw Sean lingering, fingers gripping his desk until his knuckles went white. The hall emptied, footsteps echoing away. I kept walking, but something pulled me to circle back.
That's when it happened. Ryan blocked Sean's path with his mocking grin, buddies snickering. "Hey, look at him. Careful, guys—Sean looks like he's about to 'wolf out' because he didn't like the homework." He shoved Sean's shoulder—light but mean. "What's the matter? Gonna howl at the moon or just keep acting like a freak?"
Sean lunged, slamming Ryan against the lockers. Metal buckled with a clang that echoed down the corridor. My heart jumped—I rushed in just as David grabbed Ryan's jacket. "Whoa! Sean, stop! Shut it, Ryan! You're gonna get your head kicked one of these days. Let's go." David dragged him off, the clang still ringing.
Sean stood there alone, chest heaving, shadow stretching weirdly long against the dented steel. He looked... wrong. Like he was fighting something inside.
I hurried back in, bypassing Marie, straight to Sean. I reached for his arm but hesitated. "Sean, are you okay? I saw what happened. Ryan was a jerk, but that... that wasn't like you. You looked like you were somewhere else."
"I'm fine, Scarlet," he muttered, pulling his black hoodie lower.
"You don't look fine. You look like you're shuddering." I turned to Marie. "Don't just stand there acting like this is a movie. He's shaking."
Marie shrugged, eyes rolling. "Whatever. Not my problem."
"I'll be fine," Sean said, voice dropping low.
I watched him go, that kindness in my eyes feeling useless now. He slipped out like smoke, but the image stuck—the way his shadow moved, the heat in his eyes.