Interactive story! You Are A Wolf
Choose your own path through the story
Howl-lo! I’m Mata. Welcome to my weekly horror story newsletter. Do you remember those ‘choose your own adventure’ books? This week, my story has four endings - can you find them all?
Substack wasn’t designed to work like this and, like all experimental things, this could end up a dysfunctional mess, but I can’t actually test it until the post is live. I think it will work!UPDATE 1: THIS STORY CURRENTLY ONLY WORKS IN A WEB BROWSER - NOT THE SUBSTACK APP! I’ll give it a poke to see if I can fix that, but it might not be possible to rectify.
UPDATE 2: FIXED! If you read this in the Substack app, the links will open (and work!) in your web browser (e.g. Chrome or Edge), then you can continue the story there. This is because the Substack app doesn’t properly support a bit of the tech needed to make the story work.
When you get to the end of a little section, click the link to choose where you want the story to go next.
Let’s lope into this week’s story…
You Are A Wolf
You step into the psychiatrist’s office and close the door behind you. The pale green walls are a shade brighter than the hospital’s corridor, and it reminds you of ripe avocado. Tall and thin windows let golden light slice into the room. Tasteful abstract statues intersperse leather-bound books on the shelves. Dr Ludiskova sits beside a desk, an Apple computer’s screen already locked before you enter, keyboard pushed aside to make space for a fresh page of a lined notepad, a fountain pen, and a steaming mug of coffee. She’s in her late thirties, hair tied up neatly, teeth shining white as she offers a friendly smile, wire framed glasses blocking none of her high cheekbones. Her clothes are in neutral shades of sand, their fit is loose and stylish.
“Take a seat,” she says, gesturing to a burgundy leather chair.
It creaks as you sink into it. You fold your hands in your lap, unsure of what you’re supposed to do.
“Tell me,” she says. Apprehension briefly wrinkles her brow, “Are you a wolf?”
“No,” …
… you say, then laugh. You hear the lie in your strained denial. “That would be ridiculous. Of course I’m not a wolf.”
The doctor purses her lips, seemingly thinking about how to approach this response. “I’m glad to hear you say that.” She picks up the pen and turns it in her fingers. “But I’m surprised. I’ve been told you’ve been strenuously adamant on the subject. You’re quite certain you’re not a wolf?”
“Yes,”…
… you reply. “I am a wolf.” You lean forward in the chair, elbows on your knees. “Does that surprise you?”
The doctor tilts her head, thinking before answering. “Your records show you’ve been quite adamant on this matter. But what they don’t tell me is why you think you are a wolf.”
“I’ve got arms,”…
… you say. “It would be madness to say I’m a wolf. Wolves don’t have fingers.” You do do jazz hands, wiggling your fingers. You feel your cheeks reddening. “Is it hot in here?”
The doctor doesn’t even glance at the thermostat. She looks as cool as a forest stream. “Your records say you claim that, for three nights every month, you turn into a wolf.” She removes the lid from her pen with a click. The nib hovers over her blank page. Her statement hangs as a question.
“Ah.” Your gaze drifts over the bookshelves. The doctor is still watching you.
“That’s true,” …
… you say.
“It’s true you’ve said that,” the doctor says, “or it’s true that you are a wolf?”
“Both.”
Her pen slips quickly across the paper. Her handwriting style confirms her status as a doctor: it looks like a pile of inky sticks. “And how long has this been happening?”
“Well… Actually…”
… you say, “I know it sounds insane, but I’m not mad.”
The doctor puffs out her cheeks. “‘Mad’. That’s a strong word. We don’t use that around”—
“Sorry,” you interrupt, “not ‘mad’. But I’m not delusional.”
“So.” She adjusts her glasses. “Are you a wolf?”
“I am definitely not a wolf.”
… you say. A cold shiver of shame itches along your spine, like fur rubbing within a straightjacket.
“I see.” The doctor clicks the cap back onto her pen. She looks disappointed. “Very well.”
The room is silent except for the soft whir of the computer’s fan.
You clear your throat and realise your fingers are tightly interlaced, knuckles pale as starlight. You release them, and your hands curl into fists instead. Your fingernails itch. “What next?”
“I suppose you are free to go,” the doctor says. “Since you are not a wolf.”
“I’m not.”
“So you say.”
The doctor’s eyes follow you as you leave the room. You stop at the top of the stairs down to the lobby and glance back towards the doctor’s office door, but she’s not there. For some reason, you expected she would follow you, try to stop you.
Passing through the lobby, no one blocks your exit. The air outside is cool and tastes of damp earth. You hear evening birdsong. There’s a woodland beside the hospital.
You walk towards the trees, unbuttoning your clothes. You remove them, folding them, feeling an electric tremble shimmering over your bones. You hide the clothes in the shade of an oak and walk into the shadows of trees.
Stones on the woodland floor tear through the soles of your feet, but you don’t feel it. They aren’t your feet. The human flesh rips and falls away behind you, leaving only your true self.
As the moon rises, your senses come alive, and you pad into the darkness. Your secret is safe. You remain hidden. No-one knows that, inside, you are a wolf.
“Don’t I look like one?”
… you say. A wry grin spreads on your lips, revealing teeth that feel just a little sharper than when you entered.
The doctor doesn’t return the smile. “Looks can be deceiving.”
Your grin falters. It’s not normal for people to take you seriously.
The doctor appears utterly unfazed, as cool as a springtime rain. “You are on record claiming that, for three nights every month, you turn into a wolf.” She removes the lid from her pen with a click. The nib hovers over her blank page. Her statement hangs as a question.
“Ah.” Your gaze drifts over the bookshelves. The doctor is still watching you.
“I know I don’t look like one,”
… you say, “but looks can be deceiving.”
The doctor nods. You can’t tell if she’s agreeing or just considering this. She taps her pen lid on the page, marking time. “Many of us are not all we appear to be. We abide by codes — we project and perform in ways we feel do not reflect our internal selves. There are so many expectations in society.”
There’s a distant ringing in your ears, it’s almost musical. You shake your head, trying to clear it. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Aren’t you?” The doctor removes the lid from her pen with a click. The nib hovers over her blank page. “You are on record claiming that, for three nights every month, you turn into a wolf.” Her statement hangs as a question.
“Ah.” Your gaze drifts over the bookshelves. The doctor is still watching you.
“Lies!”
… you say. Your skin feels loose over your muscles, sticky and ill-fitting. “Look, I don’t know who’s told you that, but they’re lying to you.”
“This isn’t true?” The doctor speaks slowly, her gaze intense. “Are you, or are you not a wolf?”
A vein throbs in your temple. “Here’s the thing…” You take a deep breath, knowing what you say next will change your life. “About me saying I am, you know… a wolf…”
“Five years ago, I booked a trip to a cottage,” …
… you say. “I wanted to get away from it all, just spend some time by myself.”
The doctor nods.
“Around the side of the building, there was a locked door, old wood, big iron hinges. A cold draught blasted around the cracks. I just assumed it was a storm cellar. On the first night, I was woken by scratching. I searched the house, then realised it was coming from below, in the room behind the locked door. I pulled on a coat and went outside. The door was open. I know I shouldn’t have gone down there. I’ve seen horror films, it’s the last thing you should do, but I went down anyway.
“During the pandemic, I went out wild camping,” …
… you say. “In the middle of the night, I heard snuffling and clawing around the tent. It sounded big, like a bear.”
“There are no bears anywhere near here,” the doctor says.
“This wasn’t a bear. I unzipped the tent and must’ve startled it.”
The doctor’s back straightens. Her eyes widen. “It?”
“A wolf, huge, more like a lion, it slashed at me with a paw, slicing the tent and ripping me open. Blood splashed from my shoulder and neck, then my head struck something, maybe my camping stove or a rock, and I was out cold.” Your hand reaches to your neck, tracing the line of the wound you felt open up.
The pen moves. The doctor takes notes. Without looking up, she says, “There is no scar.”
“The next thing I remember, I woke up in nearby woodland, stark naked.”
“Unhurt?”
“It started in my early teens,” …
… you say. “I’d be irritable for days coming up to the full moon, then suddenly I’d sleep like a log.”
The doctor scribbles a note. Without looking up, she says, “That doesn’t sound abnormal for a teenager.”
“I tried the light switch,” …
… you say, “But the bulb must’ve been blown or the power was out.”
“The light on my phone didn’t reach far,” …
… you say. “It was like the darkness was thick, sucking in the light. It smelled like old damp laundry and wood smoke. I took each creaking step slowly, inching down into the black.”
The doctor’s back has straightened, her eyes are little wider, pupils large. “What happened next?”
“The light on my phone flickered. That’s never happened before or since. And there was a sound, like snuffling, and like claws on stone. I heard a growl, my light blinked out, then on again, and in that second something huge had leapt. I only saw a flash of it before the phone was knocked from my hand.”
“What was it?”
“A wolf, but…”
For the first time, you hesitate.
The doctor notices, but she waits.
“It was a person, but…”
For the first time, you hesitate.
The doctor notices this. She waits.
“Not entirely,” …
… you say. “It was a creature between things, halfway changed from a person to a wolf or a wolf to a person, human skin and flesh ripping and falling, there was fur and long teeth. I only saw it for a flash, moving fast, clawing at me.”
The doctor’s pen is motionless, forgotten. “How did you escape?”
“I don’t think it wanted to hurt me. It smashed me aside with a huge paw, making its way to the staircase. I must’ve hit my head, because I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up the next day in the woodland, naked, and found my way back to the cottage.”
“Where you injured?”
“It’s where I woke that matters,” …
… you say. “I would never be in my room. I’d be in the woodland, or in the park, or once I woke on school grounds. Always naked, sometimes covered in blood, but never my own.”
The doctor’s gaze is steady, her face neutral. She must have practised that look, because it’s not natural to stay that calm: it’s not a human reaction to this story. What terrible and weird things has she heard to be so placid when hearing your story?
“It’s awful,” you say. “And then the memories started coming back. It all started to make sense.”
“These dreams—”
“Memories,” you correct.
“These ‘memories’”, she doesn’t make air quotes with her hands, but you can hear them in her speech. It’s the first truly unprofessional thing she’s done. “These make you think you’re a wolf?”
“Every time I woke up, I was naked. Sometimes I was covered in blood,” …
… you say.
The doctor’s gaze is steady, her face neutral. She must have practised that look, because it’s not natural: it’s not a human reaction to this story. What terrible and weird things has she heard to be so calm when hearing this? “Where you injured?”
“I didn’t have a scratch on me,” …
… you say. “And then every month after it would happen again. For the three nights of the full moon, no matter where I’d sleep, I’d wake elsewhere, cold and naked.”
The doctor goes to write a note, then decides against it. “How did this make you feel?”
You don’t answer immediately. Memories flash through your mind: skin tacky with unknown blood, leaves and sticks clinging to your body, mud between your toes, the scent of fresh morning air, the sounds of the first birds calling to each other. “It felt amazing.”
The doctor raises one eyebrow, which irritates you: you’ve never been able to raise one at a time. She writes a short note, then says, “And this sleepwalking is what made you believe you are a wolf?”
“Not exactly injured,” …
… you say. “But have you woken somewhere you don’t remember going the night before?”
The doctor blinks twice, slowly. She clears her throat. “This isn’t about me.”
“It’s awful,” you say. “And then the memories started coming back. It all started to make sense.”
“These dreams—”
“Memories,” you correct.
“These ‘memories’”, she doesn’t make air quotes with her hands, but you can hear them in her speech. It’s the first truly unprofessional thing she’s done. “These make you think you’re a wolf?”
“It’s more the fur,”
… you say. “Every time I wake, I’m surrounded by fallen fur, enough for a huge beast, the same colour every time. It’s not from prey, it’s from me.”
“Prey?”
“When there’s blood, it’s never mine.” Your fingers itch. Your heart quickens. “What day is it?”
The doctor tilts her head, thinking for a moment. “The 21st.”
It’s the first night of the full moon, and the sun is setting.
“It’s more the flesh,”
… you say. “When I return to the place I slept, I find my fallen skin, shredded, as if the wolf exploded from within. I recognise the moles, the old scars from before this happened. It’s my flesh, shed when I reveal the wolf.”
“When you turn into a wolf?”
“Reveal,” you say again. Your fingers itch. Your heart quickens. “What day is it?”
The doctor tilts her head, thinking for a moment. “The 21st.”
It’s the first night of the full moon, and the sun is setting.
“You’ve got to get out of here, Doc,”
… you say. “It’s starting. I can feel it coming.” Electricity crackles over your bones.
“Fascinating,” she says. “You feel you are turning into a wolf now?”
“Not turning — I am a wolf. I’m always a wolf. Inside this skin, inside this body, I feel it.” A spasm runs from your hips and up your spine, jerking your head back. “I know it.” Lava surges through your veins, searing your muscles from inside. You claw at your chest.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Inside this body, there’s fur and teeth and claws. Always. They’re always there.” Another spasm rolls through you, almost throwing you from the leather seat. “Leave me! Get out before it happens!”
You stagger towards the door,
… slamming into it with your shoulder. Under your clothes, your skin tears.
It’s coming out.
The wolf within is coming out.
The door shatters as you fall and sway down the corridor. Behind you, the doctor shouts something, but you don’t hear her. There’s a pounding in your eyes. Beyond the ceiling, beyond the concrete and metal, beyond the clouds, the moon is rising, bright and full. Its song fills your head, your pulse drums to its rhythm, deafening you.
The corridor blurs, your limbs stretch.
A pile of things are ahead leading down… steps… it’s a staircase… words slide from your mind like water from oiled fur. Beside the stairs, there’s a window. Beyond it lie trees, dark green and black swaying shapes, shadows in which you can run and hide.
You ignore the steps and leap at the window, knees cracking against the glass, they snap reverse as you tumble through the air, your human layer tears from you, flesh and muscles snag and catch on the shattered glass, pulling away from your wolf body.
You fall, the ground rushing so fast, and a tiny part of your humanity screams, but there is no voice to speak through, only a snarl, and you land on four powerful paws.
Rippling muscles tremble beneath your fur. The remaining shreds of your dead self fall around you. You are your truest incarnation. You howl and howl and howl, shaking the windows of the hospital, and you run into the woodland, its night scents enveloping and welcoming around you. Your paws pound through the leaves and the earth. You pant, seeking prey.
You don’t run from fear, you run for joy. You run because your body was made to run. This is you. You run because you are a wolf.
Tap, tap…
Tap tap tap! Your fingernails clatter to the floor, pushed out by sharper, longer curved claws.
You grab the doctor by the shoulders,
… yanking her from her seat, you toss her towards the door. Waves of energy shudder through your limbs, and you throw her harder than you meant to, sending her hurtling towards the wall. “Run!” you snarl.
She spins from your throw, bracing herself against the wall with the agility of a dancer, completely unharmed. Her hair tumbles from where it’s been pinned, but otherwise she seems unruffled as she removes a dangling hairclip.
These details register in your mind like sparks above a fire — fleeting movements that dim in significance against the blaze in your senses.
The doctor is still in the room. The wolf is coming out. As you reach for the doctor, skin tears on your arms.
Throw the doctor from the room
The doctor will believe you now
You almost yank the handle from the door,
… you’re barely in control of your strength as you shove the doctor into the corridor. Again, she doesn’t seem to mind your roughness. Before you slam the door, you see her straightening her cream blouse, as if this is just a normal day.
You fling the chairs and desk at the door, blocking it as a path for entry, blocking it as a path for exit. Tonight, there is danger in the hospital, and the danger is you.
Your elbows snap, bones cracking as they flip direction, revealing your true wolf anatomy. The skin splits with a gruesome wet shhlkk and hangs from your arms. Your back arches and ribs explode, fur smashing through your clothing, glistening with your human blood.
Dropping to the floor, you land on your paws, your snout pushing through the ripped scraps of your face.
You’re hungry. The windows are narrow lines between pale green concrete, too small for your body. Piles of furniture lay by the door, stinking of plastic padding and bleach cleaning agents. The only thing to eat is the torn human debris across the floor.
You howl. It echoes through the building, shaking floors and beds, waking the sleeping, sending a shiver of primal fear through every human that hears it.
And you eat. You eat your tossed away flesh. It doesn’t disgust you. That meat is just what you wear on the outside. Its what inside that matters, and now the inside is released for the moon to see. The pale circle glints through the windows, silently approving your true form.
You are a wolf.
Fine. She wants to stay, she can stay.
It’s her choice. She brought this on herself.
The words and emotions swirl in your head, becoming colours and scents. You taste the plastic padding in the furniture, the smell of the doctor’s skin, dust in the rugs, blood hanging in the hospital air at a level no human would ever sense.
You fall onto all fours and red blossoms through your clothes as the human flesh tears within them. Bones crack as your wolf-self reconfigures your skeleton, knees reversing with a grim grinding crunch. Your muzzle presses against the human face, ripping through the lips and nostrils, dragging your true lips back into a sharp-toothed snarl as your wolf-features slide through.
Shreds of your human covering and its clothes fall from your massive furred body, revealing your truth in the office’s flickering fluorescent light. Gore drips from your long limbs as you stalk towards the doctor. She smells delicious.
And she is not afraid.
You hesitate. There is an unknown scent on her.
She removes her glasses. “If we keep secrets, we live alone,” she says. The last word elongates, like she’s struggling to shape the sound.
Her body jerks like she’s caught on an electric fence. She tears at her clothes, ripping them to reveal flesh riven by red lines. The lines widen, splitting, strands of fur surging through, glistening and dark. She screams as she falls to her knees, but the scream becomes a howl before it dies.
You’ve never seen this before. You’ve never met another like you. Her ears prick up, and you realise she’s listening to the song of the moon.
Smashing through the door, you both hurtle along the corridor, big as bears, playful as puppies. There are stairs ahead, but also a window overlooking a woodland.
The doctor bounds forwards, faster than you, and smashes through the glass, flying through the air with grace and power that calls to you, thrills you, fills you with a sense of kinship unlike anything you’ve felt before.
She drops into the darkness and you leap after her, landing with a thump on the soft ground below.
In the shadows of the trees, she waits for you. You run to her, and you dash into the woods together, the branches whipping by as your legs are fuelled by joy and life and hunting and the night.
This is your true self, and there are more like you. You are wolves.
The end
… perhaps.
Was that how the night went?
Thank you for reading!
Substack is not designed to work like this. I’ve really had to mess around with titles and anchor system to make this work.
Even now, as I’m typing this before publication, I can’t actually test to confirm this is truly going to function. It might end up a hot mess of weird and frustrating links that means I’ve completely wasted many, many hours… Or it might be a resounding success. You and I, dear reader, will be finding out together!
If you’re new to my newsletter, I post new horror every week. Usually these are tiny micro-fictions, with occasional deviations into more experimental exercises like today’s story. If this sounds like your thing, hit that ‘subscribe’ button!
Some of my other popular stories:
Shayna’s charming farmhouse - horror in a comments section
I could just gobble you up - a morsel of body horror in 400 words
And if you enjoyed today’s second-person horror, you might like this series of tiny horror stories taken from your memories.
As always, I hope you’ll support this publication by tapping the ‘like’ heart at the end of this post, adding a comment, and/or sharing it with others. I love entertaining readers, so adore reaching new folks to thrill and chill, and you have the power to help!
Thanks for reading, have a great week!
Go howl at the moon you wonderful wolves, and be kind and spooky,
Mata
xxx
P.S. Yes, in case you’re wondering, today’s story is 100% written in celebration of Pride Month!
Substack cruelly crashed whenever I tried to comment last week. I have returned this week just to try and say:
Such fun!
Well done on persevering on what I imagine was a bit of a fiddly time of it with hyperlinks. Add to it the fact that you didn't even know it would work, and I can only applaud your persistence. I whipped out the trusty work laptop in order to read because my phone insisted on reopening the app whenever I clicked a link in Chrome.
The second person narrative always gives me a bonus nostalgia vibe. Not just for the CYOA books, but I also played a lot of text adventures as a kid and spent many hours being told, "You are in a maze of twisty passages," or "You have been eaten by a true!", or "You give the ring to Thorin'", so it's always nice to see the perspective in use.
So much fun!