Rules are Meant to be Broken

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

“Don’t let the monsters out,” they said, “Or you’ll become one too.”

The steel door had no less than seven locks, bolts and chains keeping it fiercely closed on the small room, desperately keeping the animals contained.

Every month, like clockwork, there was always someone who tried it. Tried to see inside, tried to catch a glimpse of the transformed creatures.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” they’d say, “But satisfaction brought it back.” And, true, they could be attacked and changed, like everyone behind the heavy door.

But, at least they’d have their answers.

The Monsters had many names. Werewolf. Changeling. Lycanthrope.

On a full moon night, each month, all of them would be rounded up and locked in the reinforced container at the edge of town. After a disastrous night many years ago, in which one had escaped and attacked many of the townspeople, the governors agreed they needed to do something.

No medicines could hold the change. No rewards or punishments could keep the beast at bay.

Once a month, all of them were locked up together for a whole night.

Less and less of them emerged each new morning.

The population decreased quickly, which meant less danger. But also, less protection.

The strong, monstrous men and women, even just in their human form, kept the town far safer than traditional weapons.

So whenever someone was stupid enough to ignore the only rule, why should they be reminded? If someone wanted to change, why should they stop them?

“After all, aren’t Rules meant to be Broken?”