Blood Moon

Blood Moon

by Andrew Fruchtman

The Moon was at perigee that evening, which is just a fancy way of saying it was at its closest point to Earth. It’s called a Super Moon and no, it’s not decked out in spandex with a stylized “M” emblazoned on it and it’s not sporting a fluttering cape (there’s no wind in the vacuum of space anyway, there, science lesson done). It appeared huge in the clear dark sky, a backlit hole in the night, lighting the passing clouds so that even at midnight they could be seen.

So, on this beautiful evening, where the stars’ luminescence were obscured by the dusk lighting of this high wattage beacon, we find our story’s protagonist, Irving. Now, Irving is a slightly portly young man of thirty-two whose less than average stature gives him the appearance of a lawn blowup, like the ones usually appearing during any number of holidays. Cherub-like you might say, but far from the smiley, roly-poliness you associate with it, for you see Irving is a werewolf. Yes, a werewolf, or at least believes he is. The proper term for this is lycanthropy or clinical lycanthropy for those beings who only view themselves to be shapeshifters due to psychosis.

This is our Irving and he is outside his suburban home, a vinyl-sided three-bedroom ranch situated on two pristinely landscaped acres, and he is howling. This goes on each month and the neighbors have gotten used to this ritual of noise, but not so the dogs in the area. The cacophony that answers Irving’s howls rolls through the neighborhood as the altos of the toy breeds mix with the basses of the hounds and the yips, growls and aggressive barks blend in anti-harmony. This is his element, his “people,” the guttural respondings of the nonjudgmental tolerant pack, those that accept him in his freest form.

He will join them soon, as the Moon shines down on him and releases his inner animal. His mouth throbs as maize-mottled fangs push through his reddening gums, coarse dark hair erupting from his darkening skin in prickly burning patches, ears enlarging to tapered points, amplifying the chaotic sounds in the air. On his knees in the grass, he throws his head back with a jerk and howls again, a mournful, angry cry of need and remorse, joining the outcries of his brethren wolves.

Of course none of this morphing actually happens, except in his mind, but he howls nonetheless, then passes out in the hosta bed.

He awakes at dawn, dew-moistened soil smearing his face, his whole body damp from the night. He feels his face, scratchy bristles he is sure are leftovers from his transformation, but are in fact only a two-day growth of beard. Irving tastes his tongue, checking for the salty metallic tang of blood. Nothing. Sitting up, he checks his hands and nails for signs of violence but only finds embedded dirt from his garden and a few deeply chewed fingernails from his anxiety. “Whew,” he whispers, “thank goodness, escaped again. I’m good for another month.”

Technically, the Moon is full for only an instant, although it can appear full for up to three days, but in Irving’s delusional mind it is only that one moment that affects him. I guess when you create your own reality you can set your own rules (and once again science lesson completed, you’re welcome).

Now, Irving is fully aware of his supposed condition and is quite active in many online communities dedicated to this rare ailment. He is, in fact, the administrator of one such social group, and goes under the name Louis Pine. The group’s name is Chaney’s Children, a tip of the hat to the 1940s actor Lon Chaney Jr., who portrayed The Wolfman in that eponymous movie of 1941. Irving is nothing if not clever.

The group has upwards of three hundred members, some of whom are there just to egg on the “afflicted,” in a twisted bullying kind of way, with a dash of comical bravado. “Hey loser, the full moon came and went, where’s your wolf now?” But many are there to seek the camaraderie of fellow victims, sharing stories, possible cures, and suggestions for dealing with their disorder. Irving, for one, finds comfort in knowing there are others who suffer as he does and has made many virtual friends in these chat rooms, where it’s safe to be himself.

One in particular is his favorite, and she’s not a werewolf—she’s a vampire. At first she was not welcomed into their little community and was coldly told to find a different forum, but her persistence won him over and she was finally allowed to join. They even began to interact in a private chat room, although they texted only after dark, due to that whole, you know, sunlight avoidance and sleeping-in-a-coffin thing.

Tara is her name and she suffers from Clinical Vampirism, a condition, much like Irving’s Clinical Lycanthropy, where she believes herself to be a vampire. But in her case there is no expected physical transformation—just the need to sleep during the day and to imbibe the occasional blood cocktail. Luckily, she is a nurse at a local hospital and works the night shift in the Intensive Care Unit (the night shift being her choice of course) and so has access to an endless supply of her needed libation.

She and Irving have never actually met, all of their connections have been online. But lately Irving has been having cravings to meet in real life. Of course it would need to be at night, after dark, and not on a full moon night—a first date under the wrong conditions would be disharmonious indeed for this reality-impaired couple.

Let us look at Tara, in our mind’s eye of course since there are no illustrations in this story. Tara is also thirty-two, same as Irving, but she is taller, thinner and paler. Wispy might be the correct term. Long black hair further accentuating her paper-white skin, eyes a bit sunken and rimmed in dark puffy circles. If you think “Vampire” and look at Tara, you’d say, “yeah, that tracks.”

Tara has suffered (well suffered might not be the accurate term, since Tara seems happy enough in her delusion) with her condition for more than half her life, falling into her psychosis just prior to her fifteenth birthday. The only child of a single father (her mother having died, ironically enough, from leukemia when Tara was only seven) she was what used to be called a latchkey kid, coming and going on her own while her father worked long hours at his lab. He was a research scientist with a large pharmaceutical company in the drug development unit, working on blood-borne pathogens. So between her mother’s death and her father’s career, you can say that dealing with blood was, well, in her veins.

Irving’s case was triggered later in life, in his mid-twenties, after a few experiments with LSD in college. Granted, his bipolar issues at the time lay the neuronal foundation but it was the several acid trips he experienced that led to his psychosis. Some patients view the wolf as a strong and noble creature, so when paired with feelings of inadequacy and anxiety, the “transformation” into one becomes a coping mechanism for their own impotence. They see themselves becoming something powerful and threatening as opposed to their normal angst-ridden selves (and there’s your psychology 101 factoid for the day).

He lives a quiet life the other twenty-nine days of the month and works remotely from home for a software company that allows him to make his own schedule. It’s the kind of job that has a long technical, buzzword-heavy description that still leaves the non-technical person thinking, “yes, but what do you actually do?”

Tara’s job, a nurse, is easy to understand—everyone knows what she does. They may, however, wonder why on earth she still works the night shift. Surely after so many years she would be eligible to switch to day shift? They simply don’t know her inner workings and would be horrified if they did.

Let’s zoom in on her, like some sentient drone, and watch while she maneuvers through her work night, padding around the floor in blue scrubs and white Crocs. No holes allowed as in typical Crocs due to the possible splattering of bodily fluids, but Tara wouldn’t mind some blood seeping into her socks—it could be a snack for later.

Tara’s text—“Meet me. Tomorrow night. No excuses.”—sat glowing on Irving’s phone like an incantation. He read it twelve times, alternately pacing and howling softly under his breath. He told himself it was dangerous. Two delusions colliding could spark chaos. Or, conversely, it could soothe the madness, like tuning forks humming into harmony.

By morning he had decided. He ironed a shirt, shaved off the werewolf bristles he swore were fur, and Googled “safe first date restaurants open late.” The diner off Route 12 looked promising. Neutral territory. Plus, if things went sideways, at least there’d be pie.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their flicker turning Tara’s pale skin spectral. She sipped water (blood wasn’t on the menu, alas) and drummed long fingers against the laminated tabletop.

When Irving entered, scanning the booths like a predator—or perhaps just an anxious man—Tara smiled faintly. It was the kind of smile that could be read as reassurance, or as the baring of fangs.

They ordered coffee. Irving added enough sugar to fell a horse. Tara requested hers black, then stirred it absently as if it were a chalice of something darker.

Conversation began haltingly: jobs, neighborhoods, the peculiar rhythm of nights lived against the grain of the world. Then, as though a dam burst, their private mythologies came spilling out.

“I feel it in my teeth,” Irving said. “Like pressure. Then the change starts.”

“I feel it in my skin,” Tara answered. “Sunlight burns, even through glass. Fluorescent bulbs itch. But blood—blood smooths everything.”

They laughed, startled by the absurdity of confessing their madness so openly. The waitress, refilling their mugs, glanced between them and decided not to ask questions.

After midnight, they left the diner together. The parking lot stretched empty, sodium lights buzzing like tired cicadas.

“Walk with me,” Tara said.

Behind the diner, a thin trail wound into the trees. Their footsteps softened against pine needles. Irving felt his chest tighten—the same tightness he always felt before the moon’s pull. Tara, walking ahead, seemed to glow faintly, as if the darkness itself had agreed to part around her.

She stopped, turned. “Do you want to see?”

Irving swallowed. His rational mind wanted to say no. But another part, the wolf part, thrilled at the invitation. He nodded.

What happened next would sound unbelievable in a courtroom transcript, but let’s record it anyway: Tara leaned back her head, opened her mouth wide, and from deep in her throat came a hiss. Not an ordinary hiss, but one pitched low, vibrating the air, making Irving’s hair stand on end.

In response—because what else could he do?—Irving dropped to his knees and howled, raw and unrestrained. The sound mingled with Tara’s hiss, climbing into a duet of madness that made owls scatter from branches.

And in that moment, delusion became communion.

Weeks passed. Their messages grew daily, then hourly. Tara began taking her breaks outside, scanning the night sky for the first slice of moon. Irving found himself quieter during the month, calmer somehow, as though sharing the madness had diluted it.

Then came the next full moon—perigee again, glowing huge and red like a cosmic eye.

Neighbors reported the usual howling from Irving’s yard. But this time, it wasn’t alone. A higher, sharper harmony threaded through the night, eerie and electric. Dogs barked until dawn. Cats vanished.

Those who claimed to witness it swore they saw two figures staggering across the grass at sunrise: one with hair bristled wild, one pale as chalk, both leaving dew-dark footprints.

Science, of course, would call this folie à deux—a shared psychosis. Psychiatry textbooks would file it neatly under “rare but documented.” But for Irving and Tara, it was something greater. Not cure, not collapse. Something in between.

Because sometimes delusions, when bound together, stop being prisons. Sometimes they become bridges.

And under the blood moon, two fractured lives finally felt whole.