I was absolutely straight the day of my graduation from the academy. My family was there (it would be several weeks until the drunk driver entered our lives) and though nobody said it outright, especially my dad, I knew they were proud.

At one point he caught me alone near a crowd of rowdy graduates. He shook my hand and in a very low tone said, “You look good, son. Nice job.”

He used the pretense of the graduation to congratulate me on kicking drugs, but it was better than nothing. Then in the crowd I saw a stranger moving quickly through the crush. He moved with a confidence you don’t see in a normal person. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, even though my father was talking to me. He broke through the crowd, and as he passed he looked at me and raised his hand. Then I saw his palm and the strange scar burned into its center. A pentagram, the mark of the beast. I started to go after him, but stopped. I wasn’t going to give in. The darkness would not consume me. I forced myself to look away. When I looked back, the stranger had disappeared into the throng of graduates.

That night I had dinner with my parents. I stayed sober despite the sight of the man in the crowd. It had been eating at me all night, though, because he seemed to take pleasure in taunting me. I knew what the man really was—a pentagram on the palm was the sign of the werewolf.

The dinner was nice despite my preoccupation. They were happy about me becoming a police officer and my newfound sobriety. Nobody said it in so many words, or any words at all, but they buzzed around, smiling at nothing, and there was a general air of peace that had been absent for a long time. My little sister Stephie suckered me into some Nintendo after dinner and we wound up playing for hours. Finally, after I’d received countless ass-kickings, my dad asked that we turn off the game so he could see the news. I pretended to be disappointed, but it was a relief.

Everything came crashing down when the television flickered to life. The lead story on the news was a gruesome, extremely bloody multiple murder. To our horror, we found out the murders had happened nearby. A family was having a small party celebrating their daughter’s graduation from the academy. Details were sparse, but at some point the party came under attack—twelve people were slaughtered.

My stomach began to tighten. I needed a drink, a pill, something. Anything to stop the feeling rushing over me.

“. . . details are sketchy but police are telling us that this shocking tragedy seems to be the result of some sort of . . . animal attack.”

I was numb, sick. I felt responsible for the deaths. I’d had the killer in my sights and let him go.

I suddenly felt panicked and had to get out of that house. I hastily thanked my mom for the dinner as the whole family pleaded that I stay. I remember looking back as I got into my car and seeing my parents standing in the doorway. They weren’t waving. They just stood there watching me, knowing I was about to leap off the wagon. They were right—I went on a binge that would’ve shamed Keith Richards.