It was hard to say exactly what woke Sam, but it was absolute and jarring. She sat up in a bolt and did a hasty self-assessment. No fur, no paws, just her naked body on the icy patio stones. She was chilled to the bone and ravenous.

No keys, she had only one way to get inside. She stole around the side of the building and wrenched open the sticky window that didn't latch properly, then tumbled onto the living room carpet. Her teeth chattered as she raced upstairs for clothes. It wasn't until she went to pull on her warmest knit sweater that she noticed her arms.

The wounds were gone, angry pink seams winding around her hands and arms. The scars were waxy and dotted on either side where the stitches remained. The sight sent a chill through her body, but she had no time to think about it. Her thoughts were focused on her wallet, keys, and phone, which she prayed were where she left them. She could only hope that her memory was accurate.

Bundled up in her old winter jacket from years prior that she couldn't bring herself to donate—thank goodness—she raced out of her house and scoured the ground for signs of her struggle the night before. When she found it, she nearly cried in relief. There was a faint grey scrap peeking out of the bush. She grabbed it, personal effects safe and sound. That said, the area was a war zone. Clothing scraps were everywhere, the crater she melted had gone all the way to the frozen earth. She gathered up what she could and stuffed it into her pocket before pushing snow over the hole with her feet.

Sam hadn't checked the time, but considering how quiet the street was, it must be early. Daylight was thin, she noted. Her phone had died, so she couldn't check the time. She hoped it was just a dead battery and not water damage.

Not wanting to stick around and be asked questions, she made her way home. Without her personal effects to worry about, her mind returned to the scars, the perfectly healed wounds that were weeks ahead of schedule. How could that be possible? Just yesterday her wounds had been hideous scabs, still swollen with trauma. Plus, those stitches couldn't stay, but she couldn't very well go to the hospital to get them removed. How would she explain that? Yes, hello, doctor, I know I was just here a few days ago but look, I'm already healed! Don't worry about how it happened. She shook her head and let herself into her home the normal way.

Sam took a long, hot shower as her phone charged in her bedroom. The chill was bone deep and hard to dispel. She washed twice, postponing the inevitable, then finally got out. In nothing but a towel she wiped cuticle scissors with rubbing alcohol and went to work snipping stitches. As uncomfortable as that was, it was nothing compared to the sickening sensation of the stitches sliding out of her skin. More than a few times she had to stop and gag, but she managed not to retch. Not that there would be anything to throw up, she hadn't eaten in hours.

Though healed, her arms still ached somewhat. Movement wasn't perfect, and she still couldn't grip very hard, but at least she had more freedom. How had it happened, though? What could have caused her rapid healing?

When her phone had life, she turned it back on and checked the date and time as missed notifications rolled in. It was just after eight, the day after the incident, which was both reassuring and horrifying. Reassuring because it meant she hadn't lost time, but horrifying because it meant the healing had in fact been incredibly fast. There were two missed calls from Ada, one from Kathy, and a handful of texts from Charlotte that grew increasingly worried. At least she hadn't come by to check on Sam while she was out. She took time to respond to each of them, calling Ada last so she had something to look forward to. The line rang only twice before it picked up.

"Hey, you all right? Your phone kept going to voicemail."

She hadn't thought too much about her excuse, but it came easily. "Yeah, sorry, I ended up sleeping most of yesterday and forgot to plug in my phone. I'm all right. How are you?"

"Good, just getting ready for work."

The conversation continued, mundane and welcome after the chaos Sam was getting used to. When the time came for Ada to leave for work, Sam reluctantly signed off and had to face her reality.

She had turned into a wolf. That was what she settled on, after listening to those men talking the night before. Too big to be a dog, tracks more like a wolf. What else could it be? The implication was obvious. So, Sam dragged her laptop out and set up at the little round dining table in her kitchen and got to searching. The first thing she tried was 'werewolves', obviously. It gave her all sorts of stories from all over the world, most of them romance novels full of misogyny. She refined her search to 'werewolf lore'. This gave her a bit more information, and a few less bad novels. Most implied a humanoid figure, some gross hybrid of the two beings. That was definitely not the case for Sam. She had been on all fours at all times, and from what she could tell fairly proportional to a standard wolf, but for being larger. The one that attacked her had been enormous compared to what she knew a wolf to be, but nothing like the distorted, broad-chested, hairy wolf-man.

Finally, she tried 'werewolf real' just for fun. At that point she was already convinced she was a werewolf, but she wanted more. The first result was a novel, Le Loup-Garou et autres nouvelles, with a link to purchase a digital version. She bought it, then kept searching. Up next, a fascinating Reddit post with surprisingly little attention.

[u/deleted March 7, 2016]

I think a werewolf killed my cousin.

This isn't a joke, or a Creepypasta. Last year my cousin Emily was killed in the woods around town, not far from the Thompson farm. They're weird folk, keep to themselves. Anyway, Emily would never be up near their place. All the kids here are scared of that farm. Tons of weird stories around here. She believed the stories just as much as the rest of us.

The police just released the reports to my aunt and uncle yesterday. We knew she was mauled, but the police never said by what. My uncle told me the report says it was a lynx, and that no one's seen hide nor hair of a lynx out here in some ten years. He also had some pictures of the prints by Emily's body. There's a link if you want to see.

My uncle has lived in this town his whole life and knows the woods as well as his kitchen. He swears the prints are a wolf, "a big'un" as he put it. My science teacher said they were too big, but she couldn't give me a better answer. I think it might be a werewolf.

The post was more than four years old, and the account had been deleted, so she couldn't even message the user for more information. What was worse, the link to the prints was broken. It gave her a shred of skepticism, but not enough to change her mind. She was almost certain this was a true story. What made her think that, she couldn't quite place, but something about it had such sincerity she couldn't argue with it. The comments below were mostly unhelpful, just people criticizing the grammar and a few skeptics. The author had responded to those to say that the prints were huge, almost as long as a water bottle, and what could make prints that large?

Heart racing, Sam grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, threw on her boots and raced out the back door. She scoured the snow for a clear track and nearly cried out when she found one. She crouched, then lined up the water bottle next to it. It was nearly as long. If she was skeptical before, it was gone now. That post must be real. She was living proof of it.

Having milked the internet for all it was worth, Sam went back inside and closed her laptop, then sat back with a groan. What the hell had she gotten herself into? How could this be possible? And especially in this day and age of media coverage and everyone carrying a camera with internet access, how had no one managed to catch true proof of werewolf existence? Yet there she was, a young woman who turned into a russet wolf less than twelve hours ago.

Her phone rang, jolting her out of her reverie. The screen told her it was Kathy, and Sam frowned, wondering what it could be about. She had called in sick again when she returned Kathy's call that morning.

"Hi, Sam, I hope I'm not interrupting anything!"

"Not at all, is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes." Her chair squeaked. "I'm just calling because I found your notebook in the basement and thought you might want it. It looks pretty important."

Sam paused and mouthed "my notebook?" then said, "Where did you find it?"

"On one of the steps near the bottom, it must have slipped out of your pocket. Is it a journal?"

"Something like that." Her heart was racing again. "I'll come pick it up, thanks for letting me know."

Sam hadn't brought her journal to work that day. In fact, she never brought it anywhere. It stayed in her nightstand until she chose to write in it. She had a hunch, though, and quickly geared up and hopped in her car to satiate her curiosity. When she arrived, she plastered on a smile and lied her way out the door with the journal in hand.

Safely in her car again, she ran her hands over the buttery leather cover, then flipped it open. The pages were rough from use, textured so that the book no longer closed completely flat. The first page was a ballpoint pen drawing of the night sky over a lake, little stars voids in the ink. She thumbed through the pages and found it mostly full of elegant cursive. She didn't read any of it, though, feeling like she was invading someone's privacy. She wouldn't want one of hers read, that's for sure. She tossed the book into the passenger's seat and made her way home once more.

She was still undecided when she got home as to whether or not to read it. She curled up on the couch and turned on a show she had seen before, bundled herself in a blanket, and just held the journal with both hands while she watched and debated. Eventually, she flipped open to the cover page again and took in the drawing. There was a little ship she hadn't noticed before, and tiny labels of the constellations in the sky in that same elegant cursive. If this was his, that strange man from before, he had beautiful writing.

Finally, she made up her mind and flipped open to the first page before she could change her mind and began to read.