Chapter 5 Chapter 5

Jolene

I rush to grab clean clothes from my wardrobe, which is basically just an ancient metal contraption that squeaks like a tortured mouse every time I open it. Then, I sprint to the bathroom I used to share with my gran. 

Honestly, the bathroom is about as exciting as watching paint dry. Standard-issue everything: a shower that only knows two temperatures - Satan’s lava or the Arctic deep - a tiny bath that can just about hold a toddler, a basin, a toilet, a medicine cabinet full of ancient, expired pain meds, and those truly hideous, pale-yellow linoleum floors. 

I crank the shower to molten core and stand under the scalding hot water, trying to scrub the weird wolf gunk off my body. It takes nearly an hour to feel less like a swamp monster and more like the human I think I still am. 

The old clock on the mantel in the hallway chimes ten times just as I step out, shivering and wrapped in a towel. Ten o'clock. On a Monday. Oh, fuckity fuck. I should have been at work two hours ago.

I’ve been a diligent employee at Smith and Smith, Attorneys at Law, for a whole year now. And by "diligent," I mean I show up, I file things correctly, and I don't accidentally set anything on fire. 

For a couple of lawyers, the father-and-son duo aren't actually bad guys. I figure they won't be furious at me, maybe just 'concerned.' And by concerned, I mean Old Mister Smith will probably assume I’ve finally been kidnapped by aliens, he believes in that stuff, and Young Mister Smith, despite being in his fifties and having a daughter older than me, will just think I’ve been murdered.

I should probably let them know that I’m okay, but my phone is out in the woods.

I hope.

As fast as my freshly cleaned self can move, I throw on a pair of leggings and a top that doesn't have any mysterious marks on it, and bolt back out the door. Across the street I go, straight into the quiet, slightly creepy woods.

My camera and cell phone are exactly where I abandoned them, right under that big, gnarled oak tree. Well, mostly where I left them. My tripod has taken a tragic tumble, and my phone is coated in a thin, earthy layer of muck. 

The 'cute top' and 'best jeans' I’d been wearing last night are confetti. Bits and pieces of denim and cotton lie scattered all over the forest floor.

My heart starts thumping against my ribs so hard I think it might try to escape. It isn't fear, though. It is a manic, electric thrill. Please, please, please tell me I got my first shift on camera.

I actually let out a quiet, desperate little squeal. I hope so! This isn't just a video. This is the kind of video that doesn't just go viral, it goes intergalactic. My entire future hinges on the contents of that memory card. 

Suddenly, the fame-hungry little VidHubber inside me is doing a frantic happy dance.

My trusty, pink backpack is still standing sentinel under the tree, my flask of industrial-strength coffee sitting primly next to it. Bless its cotton socks.

I use the hem of my t-shirt to wipe the phone screen clean and dial the office. Missus Delaware, the secretary who is essentially the office warden, answers after two short, sharp rings. “Smith and Smith. Don't waste my time.”

“Hello, Missus Delaware,” I say, trying to inject some calm into my voice. “It’s Jo.”

“Joey!” she shrieks, and I wince. I hate 'Joey.' It sounds so… two-years-old. “Where on God’s green earth are you? Old Mister Smith is going out of his mind! He’s convinced you joined a cult.”

I take a deep breath, trying to sound suitably distressed. "I'm not exactly sure, Missus Delaware. I think I got mugged last night." Mugged by my own inner beast, if Alpha man is to be believed… and I do believe him.

A long, suspicious pause follows. “Oh, Jolene. You were out in those wretched woods again, weren’t you? How many times have I told you to stop with that nonsense? You’re going to catch a murder!”

She is worse than my gran sometimes, and that is saying something. “Yes, I know, Missus Delaware. I woke up next to my backpack, and I have a huge lump on my head, and my favourite jeans are gone…” I rush to add the disclaimer. “...but I’m okay! I promise. I just don’t think I’ll be in today.”

“I’m sending the police immediately.”

“There’s absolutely no point, Missus Delaware. Whoever it was is long gone. Probably halfway to Mexico by now, clutching my shredded denim.” I really don't want the police near my potential evidence.

She hesitates for a moment, clearly weighing the hassle of paperwork against the satisfaction of being right. “Well… okay, then. You go on home, Joey. Lock all your doors and windows. And stay out of the woods. I’ll tell Old Mister Smith that you telephoned. And I’m going to assume your head wound means you’ll take the time to rest.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I gather all my things - the phone, the camera, the ruined clothes (have to keep the evidence, right?), and stuff everything in my pink backpack.

As I head back home, the electric buzz of excitement starts to wear off, replaced by a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. The adrenaline, which has been pumping through me like a fire hose, is sputtering out. 

I am suddenly, overwhelmingly tired, and a little voice whispers maliciously, This is what my life is now: agony and exhaustion, all for a few views.

I sit on my bed, staring at the footage on my battered old laptop, my mouth hanging open like a barn door.

There I am. Right in front of the camera when the glorious, malevolent full moon rises behind me. And then... I shift.

A wave of intense, sickening relief washes over me. I am extremely, unbelievably grateful that I can't remember a single, solitary second of the transformation. Judging by what I see on the screen, it must have been sheer, absolute agony.

I watch myself transform. Slowly… so, so, slowly. One fingernail first, then a sickening ripple under the skin, a strand of hair thickening and darkening. 

The worst part is the sound. I do not stop screaming once. It goes on for what feels like hours, a horrifying ballet of pain, until finally, the grainy, black-and-white image of a full-grown wolf fills the frame.

You went through all that, and you survived it, I think, a surge of pride mixing with more than a tinge of vulnerability.

Then the practical Jolene snaps back. My camera’s night vision is absolutely shit. Everyone is going to think it is fake.

But then a manic grin stretches across my face. 

Wait. 

That’s actually good. 

They’ll speculate. They’ll argue in the comments. I'll get more viewers that way! Fake or not, the clicks will be glorious.

The wolf in the video looks around, a magnificent, wild creature. She throws back her head and lets out a long, shuddering howl then takes off running… straight in the direction of the camera, knocking it over in the process.

After that, the magic is gone. Nothing happens. Just a lot of footage of dust orbs floating by, the occasional shiny, terrified mouse eye, and the sound of my own heavy breathing.

Bouncing excitedly with a mixture of fatigue, shock, and pure, unadulterated fame-lust, I clap my hands, a high, sharp sound in the quiet room. I abandon my tiny desk in the corner and zip over to the "studio" set-up on the other side of the room.

This is the magic corner. The place where I make it look like I live in a gorgeous, sophisticated apartment instead of a slightly moldy inherited shack. 

There is an ornate bookshelf I found at a thrift store, a lovely vintage vanity, a table mirror, and a few strategically placed beauty products. All designed to scream, “I have my life together, and I’m definitely not living on instant noodles!”

I get everything set up perfectly, then dash into my bedroom to change. Off with the respectable clothes, on with a cute, brightly colored dress. I pull my hair back into a sleek ponytail and scrub the last lingering traces of forest trauma off my face.

I inhale deeply, my chest trembling slightly with a mix of nerves and adrenaline, and look at my reflection. “I’m ready, Mister Director,” I say, and then let out a slightly hysterical laugh.

I twirl out of the bathroom, all the way to my studio corner, where I switch on the blinding ring light and the camera. “Action,” I whisper, then straighten my spine. I stare straight into the lens, giving my best 'wide-eyed truth-teller' look.

“Hello, ghosties!” I chirp, using my usual, slightly annoying greeting for my, admittedly few, followers. “Get ready with me while I tell you about my wild night out… that’s riiight, I finally have proof. You’ll want to get a blanket for this one, because oh my god…”

Ten hours later, my voice is completely shot, and I am utterly shattered. My eyes feel like someone has replaced the pupils with jagged pieces of glass, and my limbs are heavy and numb. But my heart is buzzing.

Peering through my swollen, tired eyes at the laptop, I make the final changes. I change my channel's name to something suitably dramatic, My Life as a Werewolf, and then, with a flourish, I delete all my old videos. 

They are all boring as fudge anyway, and only have a few hundred views between them. I change my username to RealBadWolfGirl but my profile picture is still the one I used when I started the channel. Later, when I have the energy, I’ll make something new. Something more… wolf-like. 

I polish the channel description until it gleams with mysterious promises.

Finally, finally satisfied, I hit 'Upload.' 

The fame is coming. I can feel it in my bones.

I watch the progress bar inch forward, and then, completely spent, I stagger to bed, already dreaming of millions of views.