The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  All his mist-shaking did was make the springs in his bed creak.

  The clock chimed midnight, and almost immediately a din of cacophonous barking erupted from outside.

  Bolt rose and went to the window, slowly, drawn to the night like a moth to a flame. Of course, flame-attracted moths usually catch fire and die. For example, the Night of the Thousand Moths had ended with a large moth bonfire. But the image of fire-burning moths floated away almost as soon as Bolt pictured it.

  Bolt looked outside and shivered, but put on a brave smile. Beware penguins! What was he thinking? He shouldn’t let superstitions frighten him. He had a home. A BFF. Shouldn’t he be satisfied with that?

  The barks were tinged with anger, but also confusion. Bolt could sense the penguins’ feelings—hostile, yet fearful. Some wanted to attack. Some wanted to go home. Many wanted to eat fish sticks.

  It was too dark to see anything from the tower window, but then the moon emerged from a cloud, its light illuminating the forest and the land. In the distance, the Blacker Sea glistened with its phosphorescent glow.

  And everywhere, there were penguins.

  Barking, angry, they cavorted across the countryside in packs. Some were gathered far away, near the water, looking for food. But many more roamed the lawn below. They pushed each other and snapped their beaks. They waddled across the yard with surprising speed.

  Bolt watched in awe and terror. He told himself he was safe up here in the tower, far above the penguins, but he did not feel safe.

  One penguin, near the end of the manor’s spacious lawn, caught Bolt’s eye. It was bigger than the others. Stronger. Another penguin ran up to it, dropped a fish at its webbed feet, and then ran off. Other penguins did the same. Soon, there were dozens of fish on the ground next to this abnormally large creature.

  The large penguin had bushy eyebrows and two small, curved horns on the top of its head. It was the penguin from the train tracks. Bolt felt its power, even from way up in the tower. The other penguins bowed to this beast. Bolt heard their thoughts.

  Yes, master . . . We shall obey . . . Can we take a fish stick break soon?

  The massive bird looked up to the tower and met Bolt’s eyes. In that moment, despite the distance, Bolt felt the penguin wanted him. Its thoughts spoke loudest of all.

  Come, Bolt. Join me.

  The penguins outside, every one, all raised their voices in a prolonged yelp. A small, almost silent bark trembled from Bolt’s lips, joining the chorus.

  Come, Bolt. Come.

  Bolt turned and raced to his bed. He yearned to dive under it, but remembered the floor was cold and sticky, so instead ducked under his covers. He put his hands over his ears to keep out the horrible screams and commands echoing inside him.

  But then, just as suddenly as his panic soared, the fog hovering in his brain stifled it. The penguin barks no longer felt threatening. They felt welcoming.

  Join us. Come to us.

  “I’m coming,” Bolt answered. His eyes lost focus. He heard only the barks. “I will join you.”

  18.

  The Night of the Penguin

  Bolt opened the door to his room and climbed down the stairs, his mind nearly blank. Every bark propelled him forward, as if he were a video game character and the penguins were at the controls.

  When he reached the front door, Bolt unlatched all thirteen locks. He stepped out into the cold night. His bare feet trod upon the snow-and-ice-spotted grass. But he felt nothing except for the desire to follow the barks.

  The mist that filled his brain grew thicker.

  It was a chilly night. The cold wind swirled around Bolt. Snow fell, large flakes that glowed from the full moon overhead. Bolt barely noticed them. The yard was empty. The penguins were gone, or hiding.

  Bolt reached the end of the long yard and continued walking into the forest. He had no choice. The words called to him:

  Come . . . Join us . . . Fish sticks . . . Who keeps thinking about fish sticks? . . . Me, sorry . . .

  Bolt plunged deep into the woods, toward the sounds. His face brushed against a branch and it scratched his forehead. He barely felt it, as the penguin controls continued to push him onward through the dark forest.

  Then silence. The barking ceased. The moon shone brightly through a gap in the treetops. Bolt’s mind cleared.

  What was he doing? His face stung from the branches’ cuts and scratches. His shoeless feet were numb from the ice. He shivered. He wasn’t even wearing a coat—merely a nightshirt. Had he gone mad?

  Two dozen penguins stood among the trees ahead of him. They watched Bolt, waiting for something, or someone. They swayed back and forth, shuffling from one foot to the other. Rocking, rocking. Their webbing softly plopped in the thin snow.

  “Hey,” said Bolt meekly. “You guys aren’t going to hurt me, right?”

  One lone bark rang out, jarring and fierce, and the penguins turned as one. From within the shadows strode the absurdly large penguin, their leader, with its bushy eyebrows and twin horns.

  The beast opened its large, warped beak. A scratchy and hideous shriek rang out, mostly birdlike but also, oddly, human.

  “BFFs!” it roared.

  And then it charged.

  Bolt ran. He could hear the beast crashing through the branches behind him. More branches scratched and pulled at Bolt, clawing his clothes and his hair. His nightshirt ripped a dozen times from thorns.

  The beast neared. The other penguins barked, too, taunting Bolt, following their leader.

  Bolt broke through the tree line and into the yard surrounding Chordata Manor. He panted. His bare toes stung from the icy cold. Bolt looked over his shoulder. The devilish creature was now on its belly, skidding across the snow-speckled lawn. Behind him the other penguins did the same, a horde of violent birds sliding closer. Bolt kept sprinting.

  A hundred yards or so from the manor, Bolt felt a large, heavy rubbery lump smash into his legs. He fell.

  The beast slapped Bolt in the head with one of its wings. Bolt grew dizzy. The monster’s mouth curved open.

  Fangs. Oh man, it had fangs.

  “I could get fish sticks for you,” mumbled Bolt in desperation.

  Bolt swore the monster chuckled right before sinking its open beak into Bolt’s neck.

  Bolt lost consciousness.

  19.

  Awakenings

  Bolt wasn’t dead, or at least he didn’t think so. It seemed unlikely. He expected death to be blacker, or filled with harps. There was light. He didn’t hear any music.

  It took Bolt a few seconds to realize where he was. His eyes focused and his ears cleared. He felt the layers of dust in his nose, the creepiness in the air, and saw the bare gray walls around him. He was in the tower, back in his bed. What had happened?

  A penguin had attacked him.

  But not just any penguin. It had been the Baron. Bolt was sure of it.

  How was that possible?

  Bolt was wearing a new nightshirt, one that was dry and not torn. He jerked his hand up and felt his neck, where the penguin had sunk its teeth, right on his birthmark. A thick bandage covered the wound. Now that Bolt remembered his injury, it itched worse than a million mosquito bites. He grabbed the bandage, ready to rip it off and scratch his neck and scratch and scratch, possibly for weeks.

  “I would leave it alone. It will heal sooner than you think.” The Baron sat on a chair near the window. Bolt hadn’t noticed him in the corner. “Sorry if I startled you. I was just brooding. It kills the time. With practice, you will brood, too.”

  “You attacked me! You weren’t you!” screamed Bolt, inching backward on the bed, away from the Baron, although he wasn’t all that close to Bolt.

  “Oh? If I wasn’t me, who was I?” The Baron stood from his chair.

  “You were some sort of penguin. I saw you.
With your giant eyebrows and your hideous bark.”

  “How is that possible? I’m curious. Tell me.” He laughed, and a bemused expression crossed his face.

  “You had a beak . . . and wings and . . . I don’t know.” Bolt felt foolish for saying it. It was impossible, of course. Still, it seemed true.

  Bolt wasn’t sure of anything at that moment. He needed to get away, if only to think.

  His brain felt as murky as the air in the tower.

  But first, Bolt needed to stand up. He swung his feet over the side of his bed and put weight on his legs. The room spun. His head felt like it was sinking in mud. He sat back down to keep from passing out.

  “I’m afraid you aren’t going anywhere quite yet. Lie down and relax,” said the Baron. When Bolt didn’t move, the Baron narrowed his eyes, and his face reddened. “I said lie. Do not make me say it again,” he snarled. “Or I shall get very angry.”

  Bolt lay down. The Baron’s face resumed its natural ghostly white shade. “That’s better. I only have one rule. That you lie down to recuperate.”

  “I thought there was also an ‘ask no questions’ rule and a ‘no festival’ rule.”

  “OK, three rules. But you do not want to break them.” The Baron crossed the room and approached the bookshelf. He lifted a platter resting on top of it. As he carried it closer, Bolt’s nostrils filled with the strong scent of raw fish. “I brought you breakfast.”

  The platter was covered with whole raw fish, in all shapes and sizes, as if plucked fresh from the sea. There were large fish and small fish in different colors. The stench was overwhelming.

  And so delicious!

  Bolt raised his hand to grab a red fish, and then brought his hand down just as quickly. What was he doing?

  “I need to leave. To think.” Bolt tried to sit up again, but his head throbbed.

  “You need to lie down. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. After all, we’re BFFs. Forever. Just like you wanted.”

  “L-like I wanted?” sputtered Bolt.

  “We made an agreement, you and I. Remember? You agreed to the terms. We are the same now, Humboldt, or will be very soon.”

  “Never. You are a monster.”

  “Me? You wear the mark of the penguin on your neck, Bolt. You think you were born with that birthmark for no reason?”

  “Well, yes.”

  The Baron smiled, but like most of his smiles, it was disturbing and creepy. “This is your destiny, Bolt. The metamorphosis has started. Together we will rule, side by side. The war will come!” The Baron pumped his fist.

  “What metamorphosis? What war?” asked Bolt. His brain was still muddy, and the questions popped out without his thinking.

  The Baron raised his eyebrows but, fortunately, did not get very angry. “You’ve had a rough night, so I’ll ignore your rule breaking this once. You will know all. After.”

  “After what?”

  The Baron shrugged and did not answer. “Questions, questions,” he muttered. “Don’t test my patience.”

  Bolt needed to get out. He needed to bolt! He struggled to stand, but once again his head fogged and he collapsed back down on the bed.

  “You will be better soon, Bolt. Better than you ever imagined! But for now, you must sleep.” The Baron stepped toward the door. “Until tonight.”

  “Tonight? What happens tonight?”

  The Baron laughed, an evil chuckle, as he strutted across the room, stopping only to look back at Bolt and chuckle softly again. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked into place.

  Bolt forced himself to sit up, fighting through the dizziness. He couldn’t stay. He needed to escape. But where could he go? Where was it safe? If only the orphanage wasn’t so far away. If only his family, his real family, was here to save him.

  Bolt grabbed the platter of raw fish that rested at the foot of his bed. He would escape as soon as he ate. He needed strength. He threw a fish into his mouth and spat out the bones. He had never tasted better food. He ate another. He reached for a third, but pulled back. What was he doing? He was both eager to eat and appalled by what and how he was eating. He pushed the platter away.

  Bolt would just stay in the tower for a few more seconds to rest, and then get out. Just a minute. Or maybe five minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops. He felt so tired. He needed to sit for a short time, and that was all.

  He closed his eyes. He only wanted to sleep. Well, he only wanted to eat the rest of the fish and to sleep, but sleep soon won the day.

  20.

  One of Us

  When Bolt awoke, it was deep into the night. The light of the moon trickled in from the window. Bolt listened for noises and creaks, but the house was silent. He sat up, and the dizziness from before did not return. How long had he slept? Too long, that was for sure. He looked at the platter of fish still resting on his bed. He clawed through the rest of the food, devouring each morsel and spitting out bones. Every bite awakened some primal urge inside him to eat more. The bones piled up and up on the floor.

  The fish gone, Bolt stood up, slowly. His head stayed clear. Bolt walked to the mirror and stared at his reflection. His face was ghostly white, and his eyes had a slightly yellowish tinge. His nose, already long, now seemed longer. His hair was always a mess, but now it appeared even messier, with two small tufts pointing up, like horns. He tried to smooth them down with his hand, wetting his fingers first, but his hair sprang back up.

  His eyebrows seemed bushier, too.

  His neck tickled and he tore off his bandage to scratch. He expected to see a gruesome scar. But his neck was smooth, completely healed. His birthmark stared back at him, undisturbed, although still disturbing. Was it even bigger than before? The wings of the penguin seemed longer and higher.

  He rushed to the closet. He would get dressed and bolt. His real family must be waiting at the orphanage. Or somewhere. His family felt closer than ever, although Bolt didn’t know why. He slipped on a pair of tuxedo pants and grabbed a shirt. He was only halfway through buttoning when he heard the grandfather clock’s chime. One time, two times, and on and on until eleven.

  No, until twelve. Bolt had miscounted.

  Outside, the birds’ howls rang out, but Bolt barely heard them. A surge of energy flowed through his veins.

  He felt the sea call him. He had an urge to swim. He needed to bark. He would do anything to waddle.

  His window lit up from the full moon up above. Bolt wandered to it, and the glow bathed Bolt in light.

  His skin rippled.

  Bolt staggered back, but the light of the moon remained shining upon him. His bare feet grew, turning orange, and webbing spread between his toes.

  Beware the moon! The more it shone, the more he changed.

  A cloud shifted, blocking the moon’s rays, and the transformation stopped, for a moment, but then the cloud passed, and the moon beamed its glow back into the tower. Bolt’s belly expanded.

  Bolt stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face morphed—twisting, elongating, his nose jutting out, turning into a beak.

  Bolt staggered to the large bay window. He yanked it open. He needed fresh air. He needed fish sticks.

  He opened his mouth to scream. Instead, he barked. His arms turned into small wings.

  “I am one of you,” he said to the penguins below, speaking in a whisper yet knowing they heard him.

  Then, he felt nothing.

  21.

  A Nightmare Awake

  In his dream, Bolt ran. Free. Powerful. He raced along the seashore with a hundred penguins—no, a thousand penguins—splashing against the tall, foamy waves. Fish flopped everywhere, and he ate and ate to feed an unquenchable hunger.

  Drop one down your throat and move on to the next.

  He was a part of them. A penguin. This was what family truly felt like. For the first time in his life, he fel
t wanted—without judgment, without worrying about being cute or cuddly, talented or not. He was wanted for who he was, for what he had become.

  Bolt dreamed of barking on the rocks and diving underwater, swimming faster and holding his breath longer than he ever imagined before coming up for air and then diving back down. He had never swum before. The Oak Wilt Home for Unwanted Boys didn’t have a swimming pool, or a river, or baths, or even large-size glasses of water. The water felt comfortable. Despite the frigid temperature, Bolt wasn’t cold. In fact, the sea felt cozy, like a snuggly blanket.

  He raced a shark. He danced with a skate and did the limbo with a squid. But then an orca appeared, a killer whale, and he fled, all his penguin brethren fled, fearing an enemy too big to fight.

  Terror filled Bolt, an instinctual fear of killer whales even deeper than his fear of the orphanage’s biting moles. But then, free from the water, the terror vanished and he raced through the forest, looking for mischief.

  He and the penguins soon found it.

  They surrounded two teenagers—a girl and a boy out for a midnight stroll, holding hands. They were skipping, smiling, whistling, until Bolt and his penguin crew encircled them. Then the teenagers shook and huddled together.

  “Don’t hurt us,” begged the boy.

  “We like penguins,” whimpered the girl. “We’re big fans.”

  Some of the penguins barked angrily. These birds felt no mercy, only a hunger for power and dastardly deeds. But other penguins hesitated, their brains addled, shifting among thoughts of power, and peace, and fish sticks.

  Bolt understood them all.

  As the couple trembled, hugging, a grotesquely large penguin emerged from the forest. This was the Baron, but now a penguin—of that Bolt had no doubt. The Baron-penguin barked, “We are penguins! We are meant to rule!”

  To the couple, the sounds were merely the mad barking of a deranged and extra-large bushy-eyebrowed penguin, but Bolt understood the voice burrowing itself inside him like a worm into an apple.