Joanne

The sun wasn't shining when Joanne was born. Rain fell in cold sheets on the old barn, soaking into the well-trodden dirt road beside it. Clouds hovered, darkening the horizon and blanketing the field with oppressive despair.

Mr. Walker woke up that morning with a pregnant wife, a full day ahead of work, and the nervous energy that comes with being an expectant father. He spent the day in the barn, selling saddles and farming equipment to neighbors riding horses in from town. He sold a new rake to Mr. Barringer, an old, stubborn friend, and when the persistent debate over his prices came up, his mind was almost empty except for thoughts concerning his wife.

The day ended in the same old barn on the edge of their property with tiny Joanne screaming in his arms, her mother gone forever. The heartbroken midwife whispered apologies from a respectful distance. “What are you going to do?” The woman asked.

“We’ll figure it out,” he answered.

Joanne grew up almost oblivious to her father’s pain and deeply ingrained feelings of guilt that his daughter walked for forty minutes to school and couldn't afford new shoes. She would ask why his smiles were always so sad when he met her at the door after school, but there were only two things he needed her to know. He pulled Joanne’s scrawny frame into a hug.

He whispered, “I will always love you. That’s the first thing.”

“And what’s the second, papa?”

Breaking from their embrace and grasping her shoulders, he stared straight into her eyes - she had her mother's eyes.

“Stay out of the forest.”

Everyone in the village of Howlett knew what lurked in the forest at night. No one left home after sunset, so Mr. Walker’s business was conducted in the morning and early afternoon. Once he had finished work for the day, he and Joanne would pick apples or go fishing. Whenever Joanne asked what would happen if the creek ran out of fish or the water stopped falling from the sky, he would simply reply, “Then we’ll figure it out.”

One Thursday, when the autumn leaves began drifting to the ground and the breeze carried a chill, Joanne climbed into the loft of the barn, where splintering planks let streams of sunlight scatter over the hay. She tossed herself onto her back. This was where her mother had died - in this barn with the peeling paint and screws that stuck out at odd angles. Hardly a fitting deathbed for the queen Joanne’s father had described her as. If Joanne closed her eyes, she could breathe life into the gentle, feminine face in the framed picture on their mantel. The happy images of her mother picking flowers with her or brushing her dark, unruly hair were worth the deep ache in her chest that came with the daydreams.

She used to go to the woods to think, but she had once stayed out too long. Joanne had never seen her father more furious than that night. He had sent her to bed without dinner and let her slam her door, fling herself onto her bed, and cry out her frustration.

At least an hour passed before he hesitantly knocked on the door and entered with his shoulders hunched. Joanne knew other fathers were harsh, with anger etched into the lines on their faces, but hers rarely raised his voice. “That was mean,” she said, pettily turning on her side so he couldn’t see the tear stains on her face.

He walked closer and sat on the edge of her small trundle bed, rolling the fabric of a worn quilt between his fingers. “Joanne, you know what I’ve told you about the woods. If you’re not careful, I could lose you.”

She rolled over and looked at his worried face, the flickering light of a lantern throwing strange shadows across it. His nose had a crooked knob at the end and his bushy eyebrows gave him the appearance of constant deep thought, which was usually true. “But no one’s seen a werewolf in years. I don’t see the point.”

Her father stared at her face, like he was memorizing every detail. His lips curved downward as he stroked back her hair. “You will. Just don’t let it be you.”

Almost every adult in Joanne’s life had at one point warned her of the constant threat werewolves posed. When settlers first arrived in Howlett, they would have left immediately if they knew of the horrors to come. Almost everyone was either killed or morphed within the first ten years, but the remnant adapted out of sheer stubbornness.

They banished the soothsayers and witches from the village, anyone who seemed to know more about the werewolves than was right. They sharpened every tool to a deadly point and added planks of wood to slide into locks behind doors. In school, Joanne was taught every year that werewolves either killed or chose humans to claim as their own.

To ever see one was death itself.

Laying in the loft with hay pricking her neck, Joanne closed her eyes and reimagined that awful night with both her parents in it. Maybe her mother would have brought tea, or wiped Joanne’s tears off her face, or hugged her for a long time. She lay there, with hay tickling her ankles, for as long as she could bear the dreams that would never be real. So long that sunlight faded, and the moon’s glow bathed her in soft light. Joanne sat up, picking straw out of her hair.

Suddenly, her stomach cramped and a sharp pang of adrenaline made her arms feel prickly. She heard a low snuffle from below her. Immediately, drawings her teacher had shown her of grisly, dark werewolves, hunched over their prey, raced through her head. It was silly, since werewolves were rarer than red-spotted salamanders, and she had never seen one of those. But the images happened before she could stop them. They left an imprint too stark to erase.

As Joanne peered over the edge of the loft, her gaze snapped to a jerky movement - a limping fox had wandered to the middle of the barn. Joanne felt a wave of nausea when she realized that there was blood covering the fox’s leg, leaving streaks on the barn floor.

A pitiful whine rose in the air, and Joanne briefly wondered if she was dreaming as she carefully stepped down the ladder. She stood at the bottom, staring at the fox, which turned and stared back at her, its eyes strangely mournful. Joanne tilted her head, slowly moving towards the fox. The door under the loft creaked open. A rush of air whipped her hair into her face.

The silent shadow pounced on the fox.

A werewolf.

Joanne froze. Her muscles were lead, the blood in her fingers thrumming with fear. The moment she heard the sound of tearing flesh, the years of warnings flooded her head and she fled. Joanne spun and ran through the swinging door in the back of the barn and raced towards her house.

Death was chasing her. She could feel it. A metallic tang on her tongue. Silver tips of grass waved in the wind, lit by the full moon above. Joanne focused on the lamp outside her house, barreling through the blurry grass towards it.

It was almost like she could feel the teeth tearing through her flesh, and she thought she smelled the horrid, rancid stench of its breath. She thought of her father crying over her and let her deep desire to see him again fuel her legs to run faster.

Still, there was silence.

Its claws hit her back and knocked her to the ground. She rolled onto her back, her hands flying to protect her face. Its weight was on her chest, pressing her into the ground. Joanne felt a piercing pain shoot through her shoulder - shadowy teeth biting into her flesh. She screamed and squeezed her eyes shut. And then the pressure was gone. She took in a shuddering breath. Her lungs ached with the effort.

Silence.

The burn of the bite was deeper than anything she had experienced. Joanne kept her eyes shut, fingers clenching the soft earth. She heard the crack of wood hitting wood as the door to the house flung open and her father yelled, “Joanne!”

She couldn’t reply. The howling of the wolf from the other side of the field made her dissolve into shaking. When her father found her, he wrapped her in his arms and swept her back to the house.

When Joanne finally opened her eyes again, she was lying on the couch with her father kneeling beside her, silently cleaning the wound. She opened her mouth to speak, but it was too dry. She swallowed and tried again. “I didn’t go into the forest, papa.”

When he looked at her, his eyes shone with tears.

The villagers arrived an hour later, armed with every weapon they had on stock. Mr. Barringer burst through the door, brandishing a shotgun. Joanne took in the blur of faces peering through the window and the doorway, their eyes all sharing the same expression of fear, guilt, and horror.

Her father slowly stood up. Mr. Barringer took one look at Joanne’s shoulder and slumped. “Already?”

Mr. Walker nodded. Joanne could feel the burning spreading, and the pain made it hard to focus on anything - except the desire to drift away and dampen sensations forever.

“You know what we need to do, James,” Mr. Barringer said, his voice low. The people behind him murmured, and Joanne spotted the face of her young teacher, Miss Sylvia.

“You know I won’t let anything happen to her,” said her father.

“It’s too late for that. It will only get worse from here.”

“We don’t know that. We haven’t tried everything.”

“I think we have.”

Her father wouldn’t look at her. Joanne knew what happened to people who morphed. They weren’t allowed to live.

“You all know Joanne. You wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

Mr. Barringer wouldn’t look at her either. It was as if she was an invisible spectator, watching everyone decide her fate while she writhed in her own skin. Couldn’t they just let her be?

Mr. Barringer tightened his grip on the shotgun. “There’s only one way to help her now. And us.”

“I’ll take her away,” her father said. “Far away. I’ll keep her and others safe.”

“How?”

“There are people in the forest who know what to do. I know we banished them for witchcraft, but I’m sure they’re still there. They could help us.”

Mr. Barringer’s jaw clenched, his face stony. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

“I go where she goes. If you send her to the afterlife, you’ll have to send me too.”

More mutters from the people beyond the walls of the house. Joanne closed her eyes again until she heard her teacher’s timid voice say, “We should let them go.”

“Why?” Mr. Barringer asked.

“They deserve a chance.”

A few moments passed. No one seemed willing to take any steps forward or back. Mr. Walker stepped over to Joanne, brushed the hair off her clammy forehead, and picked her up. “I’m taking her away. If you’re going to stop me, do it now.”

The villagers were completely silent, settled on their decision to not interfere. Her father picked up a large leather bag - he must have packed it while Joanne had been slipping in and out of consciousness. She buried her face in his chest and let the assurance of the safety and protection he offered wash over her, trying to ignore the pain that kept her muscles from relaxing.

“Where will you go?” Miss Sylvia asked as Mr. Walker turned to leave through the back door.

“We’ll figure it out,” he answered, and stepped out into the night.