AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION
Hello readers!
This story is an old one of mine that is being remade and rewritten. It was posted way back in 2014 when I was still in high school, so it had some problems, such as really wonky formatting, a first person point-of-view, a modern setting as opposed to the 80's when 'Fright Night' was set, and the tone being less mature than it should have been. But I was young and new to writing, so I have to give myself some credit. The story has potential! So here I am reposting it, new and improved.
The main lead, Jillian Vale, used to be Amber Waite, but her name was changed just because I liked it more, and it better suits the 1980's setting I think.
This story is also heavily inspired by the Syfy show 'Being Human' (US). I really enjoyed how they portrayed werewolves and supernatural stories in general, grounded and gritty at times, but with a touch of humor. I intend to capture that tone here, while doing my best to keep it worthy of 'Fright Night', one of the best vampire films of all time.
Now, on to the story!
It would have been a hell of a lot easier on Jillian Vale if she had just died.
If that werewolf had only just mauled her to death, she would no longer have anything to worry about. She could have put all of her troubles behind her. No more stress. No more sorrow. No more pain. No more nothing.
But, by some cruel twist of fate, Jillian was spared of death that night. She was happy to be alive then. She was relieved. She was unaware of the curse that was inflicted upon her.
Imagine the look of pure horror and confusion on her face during the first turn.
Indulge in a bit of morbid fascination— imagine your bones crunching and scraping against each other, rearranging themselves. Now think of how it feelswithoutthe anesthetics that your mind so mercifully bestows upon you.
But the excruciating pain wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that she had no idea what was coming. She was not prepared in the least. She was taken by surprise, and had no control over the circumstances.
Then again, nothing could have prepared her for that.
It took Jillian a long time to get used to the fact that she was a werewolf. It took her even longer to accept it, to not hate herself for what she had become. The transformation shattered her old life, and so she left behind everyone and everything she held dear, hoping to start from scratch.
She moved to a new town, got a new house, a new job. Things began falling into routine. She would be as human as possible for 29 days of the month, and she'd do her best to isolate her inner beast on the full moon. Jillian's new lifestyle soon began to feel routine after she had practiced it for a while. She knew that she was far from normal. But her efforts to organize her life were finally paying off. She was beginning to believe that everything would be fine.
It's funny how after you've worked so hard to achieve normalcy, something chaotic gets thrown into the picture and ruins everything. Something out of the ordinary completely thwarts your plans, makes everything go wrong.
It was a completely normal day, a day like any other. But during that day, something, seemingly small and insignificant, changed the course of Jillian's life forever. It was the day when her normal, perfectly human lifestyle was stripped away and thrown out the window, for the second time.
It was the day Jerry Dandridge moved in next door.
BRAYNK!
BRAYNK!
BRAYNK!
Jillian jolted upright, her heart hammering like it was trying to escape her chest. Sheets tangled around her legs, she kicked them off in a panic, breath coming fast and sharp. Her eyes darted across the darkened room, wild and searching. Something had dragged her out of sleep—and out of the dream. The dream that had felt too real.
That sound. That damn sound.
Her alarm clock shrieked from across the room, relentless and mechanical. Jillian staggered out of bed, fists clenched, and slammed her hand down on the off button. The shriek didn't stop. She yanked the cord from the wall. Silence. Finally. A cold silence, almost accusatory in the way it settled around her.
She stood there for a beat, breathing hard, blood still loud in her ears. Then—half-smirking, half-scowling—she muttered, "Really gotta get a bedside table," before trudging toward the kitchen.
Hamlet, her black cat, yawned and stretched as she entered. His golden eyes caught the dim morning light like twin lanterns. He meowed—demanding, expectant. Jillian didn't say a word as she filled his bowl with a metallic clatter. Her fingers were shaking more than she wanted to admit.
Coffee. She needed coffee.
The pot burbled to life as she stood at the window, pulling back the curtains just enough to let the sunlight in. Mornings like this were ritual. Sunshine on her skin. Caffeine in her blood. But today… something felt off. Not wrong, exactly. Just tilted. Like the day had been knocked slightly out of alignment.
Wait…work? That doesn't seem right… Do I have work today?
Her eyes snapped to the calendar on the fridge. Sunday.
Dammit.
She'd forgotten to reset the alarm. All that panic. All that adrenaline. For nothing.
That perfect dream interrupted… for nothing.
The dream had been a memory—one she didn't ask to remember. Dean's face. His voice.
The world never understood their friendship. They were complete opposites. He was outgoing, and commanded attention in every room he entered. A jock—star pitcher of the baseball team. She'd been nothing but a recluse; part of no team, no social group. The only attention she got was unwanted. She just wanted to be left alone with her notepad and her writing.
But… not by Dean. He'd noticed her, and though Jillian dismissed him at first, he never quit. Never stopped bugging her—until it didn't quite feel like 'bugging' anymore. Soon after him, Gabriella came along, following Dean around like a stray puppy. But she ended up becoming an arguably even closer friend to Jillain.
Once they finally broke down her walls, they began to bring out her louder, crazier side. She'd never known that side of her until Dean and Gabriella came into her life. She'd never known that when she laughed, it was loud and obnoxious, making her whole body shake.
Despite the odds against them, despite their gossiping peers making fun… the three of them—Dean, Jillian, and Gabriella—became best friends.
And she fell in love with Dean.
How could she not?
Anyhow, one day when it was just the two of them, he'd said something particularly funny—and Jillian was laughing like a moron. Breathless. A tear rolled down her cheek from too much joy. And then—between choked gasps—she'd said it. I love you.
Not planned. Not even conscious. But completely, painfully true.
And then—frozen silence. A look on his face she couldn't forget if she tried. Horror? Surprise? Hope? She'd never figured it out. She tried to apologize. She felt like such an idiot.
But then—his hands on her. His mouth, warm against hers.
It was a defining moment if there ever was one. That kiss changed everything. Friendship undone in a single breath. Rewritten into something neither of them had been ready for.
She hadn't thought about that moment in so long. Hadn't allowed herself to.
Jillian's eyes began to sting with the threat of tears. That dream, now that she had thought about it more, was wrecking her. She hadn't completely erased the memories of her past, despite her best efforts. And when one of those memories bubbled to the surface of her conscious mind, she was reminded of how great her life was before she was bitten. And how she had to leave it all behind, so sudden and unceremoniously.
She sniffed and drew in a shaky breath to calm herself. She didn't need to start off her day like that. It was a beautiful morning, and she wasn't going to dwell on the things she couldn't change.
That night was the full moon, but Jillian wasn't worried. She had it all planned out: she would go to the abandoned house next door and change in the basement, like she did every month. By a stroke of luck the back door had never locked, so she just let herself in.
The house may have been abandoned, but it was up for sale. It had been for sale for months, but no one was willing to buy it. The insulation was insufficient, the plumbing was probably God-awful, and the exterior of the house was… well, creepy, to put it lightly. The interior of the house was also creepy, but Jillian didn't think it was all that bad. She found it kind of charmingly rustic. It was extremely dusty, but it didn't bother her. The basement was dark, but that didn't bother her either. There was no electricity connected, so she brought a lamp with her when she went there to turn.
After her morning cup o' coffee, Jillian relaxed around the house, anticipating the full moon that night. As usual, she was packed up and ready for the change. All the essentials: bottled water, an extra set of clothing, a towel. And she had picked up a nice rump roast from the grocery store to bring along. After all, the wolf could get rather hungry.
At sundown, Jillian headed out her back door, and across the lawn behind her house and the one next door. She always exited her home from the back, so as not to attract unwanted attention. A backpack was slung over her shoulder, and she carried the rump roast in a grocery sack. The sun had just dipped below the horizon. The air was still. Too still.
Slipping inside through the back door, Jillian made her way down to the basement. There was no light. Just creaking floorboards and the faint rustle of her own movement. She dropped her bags down onto the steps. She paused. The air down there was heavier than usual. Charged. Her breath felt too loud.
But routines kept her sane. Control was everything.
She went through her mental checklist again as she prepped. Everything was packed. Everything was set.
She began unbuttoning her blouse, fingers moving with practiced precision. She reviewed her plan like a mantra: lock the door. Hide the key. Place the supplies outside the reach of teeth and claws.
Then—a voice.
"What the hell?!"
She froze. Turned.
A silhouette filled the doorframe.
Her heart stopped.
Someone was there. A man was there.
Shadows hid his face. But she could see his stance. See how large he was. How still.
How the hell did he get this close without me hearing him?
Her senses should have picked him up. Her nose, her ears—heightened and sharp. She should've smelled him. But she hadn't. Not a trace.
That's not normal. That's not right.
"Who are you? What are you doing in here?"
His voice was deep, and booming with volume. Her skin prickled with fear.
"I—um—" Jillian couldn't think. Her mind was fogged with panic. Her chest ached. Something was—
The pain.
She gasped, clutching her ribs. It was starting. Too soon.
No time.
She shoved past him, raw instinct flooding her body. She barely registered his shout. Didn't stop to explain. Couldn't. The wolf was coming.
She ran. Fast. Barefoot. Wild.
Trees blurred past her. Her lungs burned. Muscles tensed and stretched, bones beginning their inevitable shift.
I need out of town. I need space. I need to run—
The moon crested the horizon. Her mind dimmed.
And the wolf took over.
Jerry Dandridge stood motionless in the dim hallway, one brow slightly arched as he attempted to make sense of…whatever he'd just interrupted.
A woman—young, elegant, and quite clearly uninvited—had been undressing in his basement. More curiously still, she'd left a raw rump roast by the door, as though making an offering to something unseen.
He let the silence swell around him.
Perhaps I shouldn't have moved to this town, he thought.
Ordinarily, this time of night would find him elsewhere—enjoying a meal, perhaps. Something warm. Something human. But tonight, he'd lingered at home, and in doing so, stumbled upon the strange intrusion.
He sank into the velvet cushions of the living room sofa, steepling his fingers, letting his thoughts spool out like threads in the dark.
It didn't add up. Not entirely. Her clothing had been tasteful, well-maintained—she wasn't a vagrant. Nor had she seemed frightened or disoriented. On the contrary, she had moved with intention, as if this had been a practiced ritual. But what sort of ritual required disrobing in someone else's basement and the inclusion of raw meat?
He considered whether she had expected someone. A lover, perhaps. A rendezvous gone awry. But even that failed to explain the meat.
Jerry exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing with vague amusement.
He closed his eyes and replayed the scene with meticulous clarity. He had been upstairs when he heard the soft click of the back door—too deliberate for an accident. His first thought had been Billy, returning from wherever Billy often vanished to. But instinct told him otherwise. He moved quietly, an old predator's habit, and followed the sound.
The basement door had been ajar. There, left beside it, sat a modest backpack and a crinkled grocery bag, its contents unmistakably raw and red.
He looked in—and saw her.
She was striking. Wavy chestnut hair framed her face. Tall, statuesque. Early-to-mid twenties, if he had to guess. There had been an intensity to her movements, a tension just beneath her skin, like a wire pulled taut. She was undressing as if time was running out.
And for her, perhaps, it was.
Jerry allowed himself a chuckle—low, indulgent. She would've made a lovely snack, he mused, with a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. There was something oddly poetic about it.
He retrieved the rump roast and casually tossed it into the forest behind his home. The raccoons would thank him. The backpack, he stowed in the front hall closet without peeking inside. He wasn't in the mood for answers. Not yet.
His hunger, however, refused to be ignored.
Lately, he'd taken to ordering in—escorts, mostly. Prostitutes. They arrived at his door like offerings. An efficient system, though not without its faults. There were nights, such as this one, when the appetite grew too restless to wait.
And so, with a resigned sigh and a certain anticipatory grace, Jerry stepped outside beneath the velvet sky. His form shifted, dark wings unfurling like shadows unchained.
He took to the air without a sound.
The hunt, after all, was half the pleasure.