The Moon Over Room 203

Oscar Reynolds was the kind of teacher the kids remembered long after they left third grade. He wore mismatched ties with cartoon numbers, told math jokes that landed only half the time, and had a habit of drawing little wolves in the margins of their worksheets as if the animals themselves were cheering the students on. The kids loved him. The parents tolerated his quirks. The principal admired his results—his students performed better than most, not because he drilled them endlessly, but because he had a way of making math feel alive.

But what no one in Room 203 knew was that Mr. Reynolds was a werewolf.

Not a cursed one from an old bite, nor a victim of black magic. He had been born into it, carried the bloodline in his marrow, his muscles, his lungs. The moon had called to him from infancy. And every month, for three nights, he locked himself inside his tiny, reinforced basement and let the beast inside him out. He’d pace, growl, scratch, tear at the walls, howl until his throat tore, and wait for dawn.

And every morning after, he would put on a tie with numbers or cartoons and step into the sunlight as if nothing had happened.

The Strain of Two Lives

By the fall semester, Oscar was thirty-two. He had taught at Roosevelt Elementary for nearly a decade, and though the kids cycled in and out, the rhythms of the classroom stayed the same. Worksheets. Group activities. Long division explained with manipulatives. Parent-teacher conferences in the fall. He loved the order of it.

But order was always at war with chaos inside him.

On Mondays, he taught fractions with candy bars. On Tuesdays, he corrected homework while sipping coffee. On Wednesdays, he dreaded the rising moon. His students thought his tired eyes were the product of long grading nights, but it wasn’t papers keeping him up. It was the gnawing hunger in his veins, the growl in his chest that surfaced whenever a kid dropped a pencil and startled him.

Sometimes, while helping students solve equations, Oscar imagined the beast’s claws ripping through the paper. He’d grip his desk until the impulse passed.

This double life had cost him before. Friends had drifted away. Girlfriends had left when they sensed something unspoken. Family members—those still alive—had warned him that fighting the wolf too hard would only make it worse.

But Oscar had chosen teaching because it kept him human. Every day, he stood in front of his class, and every day, they reminded him that the beast inside him could not have them. He would not let it.

The Incident

The turning point came on a Thursday in October.

The school had been planning its annual “Math Fair,” a carnival of problem-solving games and contests that Oscar helped organize. Room 203 buzzed with excitement, the kids painting posters and cutting out construction paper numbers. Oscar walked around, offering encouragement, until a sudden metallic smell hit his nose.

Blood.

It was faint, just a papercut on little Jacob’s finger, but to Oscar’s heightened senses, it was a bell ringing. His vision sharpened, his heartbeat quickened, and the hairs on his arms stood up. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

He had handled blood before, scraped knees, playground accidents—but never in a classroom full of children so close to the full moon.

Oscar’s breathing grew ragged. He excused himself, telling the kids he needed to grab a bandage. He practically fled to the bathroom, locked the stall door, and gripped the toilet tank as if it were a lifeline. His reflection in the metal stall divider was feral—yellow in the whites of his eyes, teeth lengthening.

For the first time, he feared he might lose control in the classroom.

He stayed there until the tremors passed, until his humanity steadied. He returned, plastered on a smile, and Jacob proudly displayed his bandaged finger. The kids never noticed. But Oscar did. And he knew he couldn’t keep pretending forever.

The Counsel of Shadows

That night, Oscar walked the city until his legs ached. He ended up outside an old bookstore, its sign creaking in the wind. The bell jingled as he entered, and the scent of dust, parchment, and candle wax struck him.

Behind the counter sat a woman with streaks of gray in her black hair. She looked up, eyes narrowing.

“You’ve got the look,” she said. “The moon-tethered.”

Oscar froze. “Excuse me?”

“You’re born wolf, aren’t you? Not turned.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The woman introduced herself as Miriam. She claimed to know about bloodlines, curses, the war between instinct and restraint. She had seen werewolves who gave themselves over to the hunt—and those who chose to fight.

“The beast is not your enemy,” she told him. “It is you. If you deny it completely, it will break free in ways you can’t control. But if you indulge it recklessly, you lose yourself entirely.”

Her words lodged like stones in his chest.

“You must decide,” she continued. “What will you be? A teacher who hides until he breaks? Or something greater—someone who can wield the wolf instead of being consumed?”

Oscar left without answering.

The Spiral

The weeks grew heavier.

He snapped at students more often, apologizing quickly. He avoided recess duty. He wore gloves to keep his nails from scratching surfaces. He heard whispers in his own head—low growls telling him how easy it would be to stop resisting.

At night, he dreamed of running through the woods, his teeth red. He woke sweating, guilty, terrified.

But he also dreamed of his classroom—of standing in front of his kids as a wolf, their eyes wide with fear. That dream was worse.

The next full moon, he chained himself more tightly in the basement. But even in shackles, the wolf thrashed, tore, howled with rage. He bit into his own shoulder trying to quiet the hunger.

When dawn came, Oscar collapsed. He barely made it to school.

The kids noticed this time. “Mr. Reynolds, are you okay?” asked Sophie, the quiet one in the back row.

Oscar forced a smile. “Just tired.”

But Sophie frowned. “You look sad.”

That broke him more than chains.

The Choice Looms

By winter, the pressure was unbearable. Miriam’s words haunted him. Was he hiding? Was he condemning himself to snap one day?

It all came to a head during the Math Fair.

Parents filled the gymnasium, kids raced between stations, and Oscar’s class proudly displayed their multiplication carnival game. Everything went smoothly—until the fire alarm shrieked.

Someone had burned popcorn in the concession stand. Smoke filled the corner of the gym. Children panicked. Teachers shouted.

And Oscar felt it: the wolf surging forward, demanding to leap, to snarl, to save them—or to claim them.

His senses went razor-sharp. He could smell every frightened heartbeat, hear every shriek. His claws threatened to burst.

For a split second, he stood at the edge: embrace the wolf and risk terrorizing the very children he swore to protect—or fight it and risk freezing, paralyzed, useless.

The Breaking Point

Then Jacob tripped. The boy fell in the smoke, coughing, eyes wide with fear.

Oscar didn’t think. He moved.

Not fully wolf, not fully man—something between. His body surged with strength, his reflexes faster than human, but his mind his own. He scooped Jacob up, guided the other kids out, his voice booming like thunder: “Stay calm! This way!”

The parents followed, eyes wide at his speed, his unearthly authority. But the smoke shielded what they saw. By the time they reached the parking lot, Oscar’s features had steadied.

Jacob clung to him. “You saved me, Mr. Reynolds.”

Oscar’s hands shook. Not with fear. With revelation.

Embracing the Wolf

That night, Oscar returned to Miriam.

“I chose,” he said simply.

She tilted her head. “And?”

“I won’t let the wolf rule me. But I won’t bury it anymore either. It has strength. My kids need that strength.”

Miriam smiled faintly. “Then you’ll walk the hardest road. Balance.”

Oscar nodded. For once, the weight in his chest lightened.

Epilogue: Room 203

Spring arrived. The kids filed into Room 203, laughing, bickering, filling the air with chaos. Oscar stood at the board, chalk in hand, tie patterned with wolves and numbers.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, voice firm but warm. “Today we’re learning about probability. Who can tell me the chance of rolling a six on a die?”

Hands shot up.

Oscar smiled. The wolf stirred inside him—not in hunger, but in solidarity, in readiness. It wasn’t a curse anymore. It was part of him.

And so Mr. Reynolds, the third-grade math teacher, natural-born werewolf, and guardian of Room 203, embraced both halves of himself.

Not just for his own survival. But for theirs.