First there came the allure. The enchantment, the spell, of the moon.

Many nights, kept awake by the moon's song, then coaxed into a trance by its lullaby. A beautiful spell, a spell that one would be willing to be put under. The skin longed to be bathed in her light, the brain yearning to surrender to her power.

For many months, the enchantment was gently seductive, like the beginnings of an addiction. The infected were only mildly affected by the moon's drug. They could fight it if they wanted to. But they didn't. That's what made the spell so inescapable. Instead of morphing its victims against their will, the disease simply let them change themselves. With the moon's help, of course.

But after a while, the attraction became stronger. They, the victims, began to feel it. The moon's song filled their minds, not only during the night, but also during the day's hours, constantly calling, beckoning to the poor souls. They didn't know that the spell was actually inside them, the disease running hot in their blood. By now, even if they wanted to fight it, they couldn't. At this point, they would do anything just to catch a glimpse of the moon's wonder. Their addiction now completely entranced their minds.

Then came the pain.

It started at the base of their skulls, like a small headache. Barely noticeable, especially when they were kept transfixed by the moon. It stayed there for a while, waiting silently, like a tumor, until the moon was full. Then it struck fully.

During the first hours of night, the disease's victims were kept awake yet again, this time with a pounding, excruciating pain slashing through their skulls. And by midnight, when the moon seemed to affect them the most, the pain suddenly spread to all of their limbs. They would fall to the ground in agony, thrashing and screaming as the sharpness scalded their bodies. The wince-worthy cracks of their bones filled their ears as they stretched and morphed inside them, straining against the skin. The victim's shouts turned deep and growling as their vocal chords reshaped.

Then dusty brown hairs started to shoot from their skin. They looked at this in horror, until the pain reached their eyes and the color around the pupils turned silver. They would clench their heads with moans as their skulls cracked and morphed under the skin. Their teeth grew sharp and long, stretching their black lips. The hair would now completely cover their bodies. And all their nails were elongated and black. In utter confusion and pain, they would stumble blindly out into the night, hoping for the lull of the moon to come back.

But the moon had betrayed them. The disease was now fully consuming its victims.

Then came the bloodlust.

A churning, bubbling urge, even on the first transformation. An urge that made the victims think that they would die if they didn't eat. Many that had transformed for the first time still desperately held on to their previous consciousnesses and fought the urge to bite the next person that they saw. But the weaker ones were not so lucky. They surrendered helplessly to the curse, and tore at flesh, any flesh, destroying herds of animals, and invading villages. Their eyes shone silver with the light of the moon and their teeth gleamed with fresh, hot blood and venom. The pain of the transformation had faded, but their minds were corrupted with their new infatuation with flesh. At this realization, their normal consciousness fought against the barriers of the disease. They used flashing memories to find their way home and blacked out.

Then, after many years of human infection, the disease spread underground.