My Sister is 100% a Werewolf

Tuesday, 8:04 p.m.

I was watching The Wolfman—the real one, not the weird black-and-white version Dad likes—when it happened. Right at the part where the werewolf bites the mayor and howls at the moon while holding up a severed arm like it's a turkey leg.

My sister stomped into the room wearing her usual outfit: black hoodie, angrier black hoodie energy.

"If you steal my hoodie again, I will end you," she growled.

Growled.

Like she was hiding a snout under all that foundation. Like she had pointy teeth ready to tear into my innocent, hoodie-thieving flesh.

That's when I knew.

My sister was a werewolf.

I've always suspected she wasn't fully human—she listens to bands with names like The Bleeding Ferrets and eats steak so rare it says "moo" when you poke it—but this? This was confirmation.

And sure, okay, I've seen Twilight. I know those werewolves are shirtless and sad all the time. But The Wolfman has the real stuff: silver bullets, full moons, transformation sequences so gross I had to watch through my fingers.

So, now I was watching her.

Studying.

Logging her habits like a scientist who also carries a silver spoon at all times.

Because someone in this house had to be brave.

And being the only one paying attention? That felt like a job someone had to take seriously.

Wednesday, 3:37 p.m.

Phase One of Operation: Silver Fang Protocol was observation.

I set up a base in the upstairs hallway. From there, I had a clear view of her bedroom door, the bathroom, and the stairwell. I also had snacks, a notebook, and Mom's old camping binoculars that made everything look way more dramatic.

Within the first hour, I observed:

-One instance of aggressive hair brushing

-Three times, "Ugh, my life is so stupid!"

-A suspicious amount of howling music (not even singing—actual howling, like wolves on a karaoke night)

At 4:12 p.m., she emerged from her room to grab a protein bar and mutter something about carbs. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up, and I saw it.

A scratch.

A long, red, healing scratch on her forearm.

When I asked about it later, she said it was from field hockey. But you know what else plays rough and doesn't wear shin guards?

Werewolves.

Also cats.

But mostly werewolves.

That night, I searched "how to know if someone is a werewolf" online, but most of the sites were clearly written by amateurs. One of them said if someone has a "hairy chest," that's a red flag, which felt problematic. Another one said to test their reflection in a mirror, which seemed like it would mostly confirm if she was a vampire, and honestly? I'm not ready to consider a hybrid situation.

I needed hard data.

So I made a checklist:

-Disappears during full moons

-Has animal instincts (eats meat aggressively, growls, possibly marks territory)

-Mysterious wounds

-Avoids silver

-Transformation caught on video

So far, she had three out of five.

Three.

That's 60%. That's almost a passing grade at my school.

That's when I knew...

I needed to up my game.

Thursday, 7:58 a.m.

I started with a silver test. According to The Wolfman, werewolves hate silver. It burns them. Weakens them. In one scene, the werewolf guy gets stabbed with a silver-tipped cane and basically explodes.

It was awesome.

But I don't have a silver-tipped cane.

And, Mom might ground me if I made my sister explode anyway.

But I do have access to our kitchen drawer, and Mom has this super fancy spoon she only uses on holidays. It's real silver. She said so herself, like, ten Thanksgivings ago when I tried to use it to dig a hole in the mashed potatoes.

So I waited until breakfast.

She sat down at the table, tired and grumpy (as usual), and I casually slid the silver spoon next to her cereal bowl like it was no big deal.

"Why is this spoon hot?" she said, holding it up.

"No reason," I said. I smiled. Probably too much.

She squinted at me. "Did you put this in the microwave?"

"WHAT? No, why would I do that? That's unsafe, and totally unrelated to werewolf stuff."

"Okay...freak." She got a new spoon.

Suspicious. Refused to use the silver.

That's a 4 out of 5 on the checklist.

80%.

That's a B-.

I'm basically a werewolf-detecting genius.

Naturally, I couldn't stop there. I needed more proof. Solid, undeniable evidence. Like what they show in documentaries, or that one time Mom filmed Dad sleepwalking into the fridge.

So, I started setting traps. Nothing major—just some basic home defense techniques I learned from Home Alone and a YouTube channel called Real Paranormal Bros.

-I strung yarn across the hallway at ankle height

-I left out a raw hamburger patty as bait

-I duct-taped a dog whistle to a remote-control car and parked it outside her door

That one didn't go great.

She stepped on the hamburger (barefoot), face-planted into the yarn trap, and then started yelling things that made Dad choke on his coffee.

She found me hiding under the stairs with my field notebook and silver spoon.

"YOU ARE INSANE," she shouted, covered in raw meat and lint.

"That's exactly what a werewolf would say," I whispered.

She tried to lunge at me, but the dog whistle went off, and she tripped again.

Honestly, that part was kind of beautiful.

I got grounded, obviously.

But justice has a price.

Maybe I should have stuck with the exploding option...

Friday, 8:06 p.m.

Tonight was the full moon.

The calendar said so. The weather app said so. And my bones said so—specifically the part of my brain that's usually wrong but feels extremely right when it's time for dramatic action.

My sister had been acting extra weird all day. Pacing. Huffing. She even ate two steaks at dinner. Two. Who does that unless they're trying to bulk up their werewolf form?

At 8:11 p.m., she snuck out the front door wearing a hoodie, black leggings, and a look that said, "I have dark secrets."

Obviously, I followed her.

I was dressed for stealth:

-All black (including a ski mask I found in the garage)

-Sneakers (so I could run if she started chasing me)

-Silver spoon (in a sock, like a weapon)

-Emergency granola bar (in case I needed to outlast her in the wild)

She headed toward the school. I stayed low, moving from bush to mailbox to trash can like a secret agent with asthma.

At exactly 8:22 p.m., she stepped onto the track field. The moon was high. She stood there for a second, staring up at it.

My heart was pounding.

This was it.

The transformation. The fangs. The horrible cracking sounds of bones breaking, reshaping.

I took a deep breath and leapt out from behind the bleachers, silver spoon held high.

"STOP RIGHT THERE, MONSTER!" I shouted.

My sister yelped, dropped her phone, and spun around so fast she almost fell over.

"What the—what are you doing?"

"You've been hiding it for weeks," I said, slowing approaching. I didn't want my head ripped from my body, after all. "The growling. The meat. The scratch. The full moon sneaking. I know what you are."

She stared at me. Then at the spoon.

"Are you holding a sock?"

"And a silver spoon. So don't go getting ideas."

Silence.

Then—she burst out laughing.

Like, wheezing, doubled-over, can't-breathe laughing.

"Oh my goodness," she gasped. "I was just—dude, I've been training. For track."

The air was sucked from my lungs as I tried to ask, "What?"

"I didn't want anyone to know, goofball. Not unless I made the team. I didn't want Mom and Dad getting all weird and posting about it. So, I've been sneaking out here to run laps."

She picked up her phone, still giggling. "Also? That steak was for iron, not transformation, freak."

"But... the hoodie. The growling!"

"You stole my hoodie and played Pitbull at full volume. Anyone would growl."

"Fine. And the scratch?" She was lying. She had to be. I did the research. I did the detective work!

"I crashed my bike into a bush. Why are you being like this, dude?"

I lowered my spoon. My hands were sweaty.

"I was just...being cautious. Like a normal person."

She walked past me and ruffed my hair. "Well, Sherlock, next time you accuse someone of being a supernatural creature, maybe lead with something stronger than soup flatware."

Saturday, 10:12 a.m.

Operation: Silver Fang Protocol is now on temporary suspension.

Not shut down. Just paused.

Yes, my sister did not transform under the full moon. Yes, she claims she's just training for track. And yes, she laughed so hard she cried and then told Mom everything.

Now, I have to write an apology essay titled, Why It's Inappropriate to Booby Trap the Hallway with Ground Beef.

But, that doesn't mean I was wrong.

Because here's the thing:

-She still growls

-She still avoids silverware when she thinks no one's watching

-And last night, when she got back from "running," she went straight to the fridge and ate three leftover chicken legs in one bite

So, maybe she's not a full werewolf.

Maybe she's, like, a half werewolf.

A hybrid.

A sleeper agent.

A teenage lycanthrope with a decent 400m split time.

I'm staying vigilant.

The silver spoon is under my pillow. The new operation name is, Project Moon Sister. And if she starts howling again—or sheds on the couch—I'll be ready.

Also, just saying...

Grandma does move kind of slow and keeps saying things like, I need more brains —I mean bran.

I might have a new case.

Operation: Is Grandma part Zombie?