Moonlit Malice

by Marc Corteguera

Illustrated by: Alexander Valls

The cold didn’t belong here.

The Florida cold was almost always a joke. But this cold front was different. Students came into our late 7:00 college class hunched over, breath faintly visible in the lecture hall, hoodies pulled tight. A third of the seats were empty, students calling in sick.

I sat in the back, watching frost gather along the windows like the building was being quietly swallowed.

Sofia sat three rows ahead of me. Alone.

Someone leaned across the aisle and whispered, “Why is she dressed like that?” A few people laughed under their breath. Sofia’s shoulders tensed, just slightly.

I looked away and told myself it wasn’t my problem. I told myself it would pass.

The cold was new. This wasn’t.

The professor started class late, distracted, checking her phone every few minutes. Outside, the campus lights flickered against a bruised sky. Then, as I watched through the window, something impossible began to fall.

Snow. In Florida.

“Due to road conditions,” an announcement blared overhead, “students and staff will remain inside overnight.”

A low murmur filled the room. Someone groaned. Someone else laughed like it was a joke.

Night settled fast.

The heaters—never used before—struggled, coughing out weak bursts of air. Phones began to die. People argued. The school, usually loud and alive, closed in on itself. Somewhere between boredom and fear, tension began to rise.

That’s when Chase became hard to ignore.

He leaned back in his chair, letting it scrape loudly against the floor. “Do you ever talk,” he said, not looking at Sofia, just loud enough for the row to hear, “or is the whole silent thing your brand?”

A couple people laughed. Someone muttered, “Damn.”

Sofia kept her eyes on her notebook. Her grip tightened around her pen until her knuckles went white.

Chase smiled. “I’m just asking. You look like you’re about to bolt every five seconds.”

A phone lifted a few seats away. Someone snorted.

She shifted in her seat, shoulders curling inward.

“Dude,” a girl said without much conviction, still smiling, “leave her alone.”

I sat a few rows back and watched.

It’s not my business, I thought. It’ll stop.

It didn’t.

From my desk by the window, I stared out at the moon, full and white against the dark. The snow reflected its light, turning the campus unreal.

Then I heard a yelp behind me.

I turned to see Sofia staring past me, out the window. She looked pale, jittery, like her body was fighting itself, like she’d seen a ghost.

“You good?” I asked her. 

She nodded too quickly and rushed out of the room, muttering something about the bathroom.

Moments later, someone screamed.

Seconds after that, the classroom door slammed open. A student I didn’t recognize sprinted inside, clutching his arm as blood streaked down his sleeve.

He spoke quickly and incoherently, as people rushed to surround him. I only caught some fragments. An animal, wild and wrong. He said it almost looked like Sofia.

“I swear I saw something,” he whispered, wide-eyed. “It looked like her, but it wasn’t human.”

Chase stopped laughing. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

As everyone clustered together, memories surfaced uninvited: Sofia looking at me once, like she was waiting. Me looking away. Me laughing weakly at Chase’s jokes because it was easier than saying anything at all.

Chase started talking about escaping. “If we break the window—”

Something moved at the end of the hall.

I didn’t see it clearly. I didn’t want to.

I ran.

Footsteps pounded behind me. A scream cut off too abruptly. I didn’t stop to look back.

I ended up in a bathroom, cornered by sinks and stalls, the mirror fogged with cold. My heart slammed so hard I thought it might tear its way out. My ears rang.

The door creaked open.

She stepped into the light.

Sofia.

Or what she had become.

Her body was wrong in ways I couldn’t explain without screaming, wolfish, towering, claws scraping tile. In the mirror, her reflection loomed behind mine, taller and sharper, unmistakable.

But her eyes were familiar.

Sad. Sharp. Empty in a way that felt deeper than anger.

She knew me.

“I never did anything to you,” I said, my voice breaking. “I wasn’t like them. I didn’t hurt you.”

The words spilled out, desperate. I believed them. I needed to.

My mind stacked excuses. I’d just watched. I’d just stayed out of it.

Sofia didn’t move.

She didn’t argue.

She just looked at me, and I understood then that she had always been watching too—counting who spoke, counting who didn’t. 

I realized, too late, that doing nothing hadn’t saved me. It had only delayed this moment, when staying silent finally demanded an answer.

She took a step forward.

And there was no place left to hide.