Mike loved being a journalist, peddling stories of the fantastic which held very little ‘factual content’ but sold online subscriptions… His latest assignment was the Hertfordshire town of Ware. Officially, he was there to write fluff: The Ware-Wolf: A Hairy Tale from England’s Haunted Heartland. Unofficially? He just wanted to get paid and maybe expense a pint. But the town was... seriously wrong. Wolfsbane everywhere. Purple blossoms sprouting like nature’s warning sirens, from gutters, gravestones, the ovens of Greggs. Something ungodly was happening at pace. Mike looked up and there was Ava, standing in the mounds of weird flowers. A girl, maybe ten. Barefoot. Gold eyes. The sort of look that makes small dogs whimper and old priests reach for holy water. He followed her. Because curiosity is stronger than common sense, and he sensed a story. She slipped into the local cinema like a whisper. The Howling was playing. Mike couldn’t help himself; he ran in too. He burst through the door just as she changed. A spectacle only ever witnessed onscreen was happening with the film still playing, its grainy werewolf mid-transformation, while Ava’s real one outdid it in surround sound and 4D arterial spray. Bones snapped. Skin shredded. Fur exploded as muscles sprang into form. Her jaw stretched open with a sound you could feel in your spine. Everybody screamed. She moved so fast, it was like someone had pressed fast-forward on a slaughter TikTok. A man in the front row tried to run. She caved his skull in with a swipe that sent his teeth flying like wet popcorn. Another tripped, got up, then got cut in half. One half made it to the fire exit. The other? Not so much. Ava climbed the walls. She howled in harmony with the movie. The on-screen werewolf bared its teeth as Ava tore someone’s throat out, revelling in the bloody fountain. Mike vomited into his cup holder. And then gunfire... Black-clad tactical troopers stormed in. Firing silver bullets, shouting, the works. They managed to hit her. A few times. She hit back harder. One went down with his intestines wrapped around his neck like a slippery scarf. Another got thrown through the projector glass. But finally, someone got close enough with a huge syringe filled with enough sedative to down an angry rhino on cocaine. Ava dropped. Shrinking. Bones cracking back into place. The man with the needle slapped silver cuffs on her and turned to Mike. “You saw nothing.” Mike nodded. Hard to argue when your trousers are wet and none of its rain. Days later. The news said, “leopard attack.” A freak, exotic accident. Mike drank. Deleted his footage. Tried to sleep. Then came the knock. Three short raps. He opened the door. Ava stood there. Human again. Gold eyes glowing. “Hello, Mr. Brookes,” she said. “Can I come in?” Mike let her. Behind her, the wolfsbane was blooming again.