The second full moon confirmed my suspicions and shattered any remaining illusions about normal flatmate dynamics.
This time, I was prepared. I'd done research, though explaining my browser history would have been awkward. "Signs of lycanthropy," "werewolf behavior patterns," and "how to tell if your roommate is a supernatural creature" weren't exactly typical university reading material.
I'd also invested in a pair of noise-canceling headphones and moved my heaviest textbooks against the shared wall between our bedrooms. If Marcus was going to have another "restless night," I was determined to get some sleep.
The transformation began around ten PM.
I'd been ready for the crashes, the growling, even the howling. What I hadn't expected was the running commentary.
"Oh, come on!" Marcus's voice, strained and increasingly guttural. "Not the good jeans!"
A sound like fabric tearing, followed by frustrated muttering that gradually became less coherent.
"Stupid bloody timing! I just bought those!"
More ripping. Something heavy hit the floor.
"Right, that's my deposit gone."
Then came the sounds I'd been dreading. Bones cracking, joints popping, what could only be described as fundamental anatomical restructuring happening at high speed. Through it all, a continuous stream of complaints that grew progressively less human.
"Ow, ow, ow! Why does it always hurt so much?"
The voice was changing, deepening, developing an inhuman resonance that made my teeth ache.
"And why do I always forget to take off my watch? Stupid, stupid..."
A sound like metal snapping, followed by a howl of frustration that definitely didn't come from human vocal cords.
Then, blessed silence.
I'd held my breath, waiting. After about ten minutes, I'd begun to relax. Maybe that was it. Maybe werewolf transformations were like really aggressive costume changes, messy but brief.
Then the door handle had started rattling.
Not violently, not desperately. Almost... politely. Like someone testing to see if it was locked, then accepting the result with resignation.
The scratching had resumed, but this time it sounded different. Less frantic, more methodical. Like someone with very large claws was absently drumming them against wood while thinking.
Around midnight, the howling had started.
It began softly, almost tentatively. A low, mournful sound that seemed to well up from somewhere deep in Marcus's chest. Then it had grown stronger, more confident, until it filled our small flat with a sound that was simultaneously beautiful and terrifying.
Our neighbors had not been impressed.
Mrs. Patterson from upstairs had banged on her floor with what sounded like a broomstick. Mr. Chen next door had shouted something through the wall about "inconsiderate students" and "calling the landlord."
The howling had stopped abruptly, replaced by what I could only interpret as embarrassed whimpering.
After that, the rest of the night had been relatively quiet. Occasional pacing, some more scratching, and what sounded like an attempt to reorganize the destruction. Around dawn, I'd heard the unmistakable sounds of transformation in reverse, accompanied by renewed complaints.
"Right, that's definitely not getting the deposit back."
By the time I'd worked up the courage to emerge from my room, Marcus was gone, leaving behind his usual tornado of destruction and a hastily scrawled note: "Sorry about the noise. Will pay for any damage. Please don't call the landlord yet."
I'd stood in his doorway, surveying the carnage. Shredded clothes, overturned furniture, and what appeared to be claw marks on every available surface. In the middle of it all, a single shoe, perfectly intact, sitting upright like it was waiting for its owner to return.
That's when I'd realized that my flatmate wasn't just a werewolf. He was a disaster.
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