The Werewolf Who Was Allergic to Dogs

Martin had been bitten by a werewolf six months ago.

Most people, upon hearing this, pictured him as a terrifying, moon-fueled beast capable of ripping apart deer with his bare claws.

In reality, Martin was mostly… itchy.

It started with the hair. Not the cool, dramatic fur—no, he just got patchy tufts on his arms and neck that looked like a botched haircut. Then came the sneezing.

By the time the first full moon rolled around, Martin discovered the truth: he was allergic… to himself.

The night began with a sniffle.

Martin looked at the glowing moon through his apartment window, clutching a box of tissues.

Here it comes, he thought. The transformation. The power. The—

“Aaachoo!”

His body began to stretch and shift, fur sprouting across his arms. His teeth sharpened into fangs. His back cracked as he hunched forward.

It should have been glorious.

Instead, his nose ran like a faucet.

By the time he made it outside, he looked less like a predator and more like a guy in a bad Halloween costume, wheezing.

The neighborhood cats were unimpressed.

Martin had planned to hunt that night, but every time he caught the scent of something interesting—like the neighbor’s barbecue—he sneezed so hard he lost track of it.

To make matters worse, someone was walking their golden retriever.

The second the dog barked, Martin’s eyes started swelling. His claws retracted just so he could rub them.

He turned to run but stepped on a garden rake. The handle smacked him in the face.

Half an hour later, he was sitting on the curb, panting, when a figure emerged from the shadows.

A tall man in a long coat. Red eyes. Pale skin.

“You seem… troubled,” the man said. “I am Victor, lord of the night. Perhaps I can help.”

Martin sniffled. “You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

Victor gave a smug smile. “Indeed.”

“Well, I’m a werewolf.”

The vampire’s smile faded when Martin sneezed into his direction.

“Is this… normal for your kind?” Victor asked, sidestepping the tissue.

Martin groaned. “Apparently not. I’m allergic to dogs.”

There was a long pause before the vampire laughed—loud, wheezing laughter. “You are the most pathetic creature I have ever met.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Martin muttered.

Victor took pity. “Come. I know a place where monsters like us gather. They won’t laugh… much.”

Martin followed him to a small diner on the edge of town. Inside were creatures of all shapes—mummies sipping tea, a ghost reading a menu she couldn’t touch, and a swamp monster in a hoodie.

They listened to Martin’s tale with sympathy, or at least without obvious giggling. Turns out, a lot of monsters had problems.

The swamp monster couldn’t swim (“chlorine allergy”). The ghost got motion sickness in moving cars. The mummy had eczema.

By the end of the night, Martin didn’t feel so bad.

As they all left the diner, Victor clapped Martin on the back. “See? We’re all freaks in our own way.”

Martin smiled. Then he caught the scent of someone’s husky down the street—

“Aaachoo!”

And just like that, the allergic werewolf tripped into a bush.

Some monsters were just meant for indoor work.