For best and clearest experience, please read part one and part two before reading further.

Last time, the Good Doctor's latest test subject, the cobbler's boy, died as a result of the Good Doctor's extensive testing for a werewolf cure. Now, the Good Doctor is tasked with turning his neighbor into a werewolf to continue his search for a cure before the night of the full moon arrives.

The Good Doctor Part 3 by Kim Robinson

Night fell, and I transformed. Hardly any hair grew. My claws or teeth barely grew either. I concluded that the less of the moon there was, the less of a transformation I underwent.

Regardless, I went across the street and paid my neighbor a visit.

Her door was locked, but the second-floor window open to let in the night's breeze. And, the sheriff was working late tonight.

Although my transformation was lessened, I still my agile prowess. I leaped to the window. My vision cut through the darkness of the home with clarity.

She was in her bedroom, sound asleep. Where shall I bite her? It needed to be hidden well enough for her to hide from her husband.

With swiftness, I threw her blanket aside and bit her in her thigh.

She shrieked bloody murder.

She kicked at my face, but my jaws clung to her. Don't go too far, I told myself. I know I'm hungry, but I can't severely injure her.

I ran, leaping out of the window and landing on the ground with a swift roll.

Instead of running to my house, I ran to the woods. I didn't want her to see the culprit walking into the good doctor's home.

I licked my lips and sucked at the blood on my thumbs. All it did was make me hungrier.

-

The next morning, I was in my clinic. I heard the door open behind me. There was the sheriff's wife, ghostly pale and walking with a limp.

Surprisingly, she didn't fumble in admitting she was a werewolf.

"I figured ya wouldn't tell no one given ya kept hush about my awful encounter with that explosive bit of "food poisonin'. I knew you kept yer' would because I wasn't the talk of the town after. So I trust you to keep yer' word here."

She recounted last night's events, hiking up her skirt and to show me the bite. I winced at my own work.

She told me about her transformation—how she was forced to eat the dried meats she and her husband were saving for the winter and how awfully hairy she was. She was fortunate her husband never showed up, but she locked herself in the bathroom all night in case he arrived.

I vowed to help her, and she was compliant with my next treatment: A silver implant. Silver is the weakness of werewolves, proven time and again. Its exterior effects were to simply burn the skin. I wanted to see if it could nullify the disease from within.

So, I knocked her out with anesthetics, so I could cut her open with a small incision and slip in a silver bullet I asked her to borrow from the sheriff's personal collection at home.

After stitching her up, she awoke hours later. She noted the discomfort in her abdomen. I told her it may be the cure doing its job, so she left with confidence.

-

I awoke the next morning with impatience. So, I walked across the street and knock on the sheriff's door. The door opened slightly. Within, I saw the sheriff's eyes peering at me.

He told me to come in quickly, checking for any passersby before closing the door behind me.

The first thing I noticed was a dry patch of blood that was shoulder level to his shirt.

"Relax Doc', I ain't hurt, no more." He sat down in his living room. His features remained tense.

"I decided to give the werewolf investigation a rest last night. I came home to give my wife the attention she deserved. The moment I opened the bedroom door, I saw my wife transform into a beast. She writhed like her entire being was in pain."

He locked her in the closet, but not before she gave her his bloodied shoulder, he remarked by pointing at it. He kept the door shut, praying she would calm down. Then, nothing. He steeled himself, slowly opening the door. He found his dear wife on the ground. She was holding a burning, bleeding hole in her stomach. It looked like she was scratching it open. Within her palm was a bloody bullet.

I was silent, mulling over my second failure. I asked him about his lack of transformation. He told me he did transform. "I was awfully hungry, but I managed to resist the whispers of the beast and lasted 'til morning."

I recalled my last battle with a similar beast and my short failure after. I thought this was worth looking into.

I first offered to patch the sheriff up, but he declined, saying a rag and some booze was all that was needed. The sheriff agreed without question to my treatment option of locking him in his room until sunrise to see if resisting the beast without feeding lead to a cure.

-

We met at his house at sunset. I locked him in the same closet his wife died. He was hesitant but compliant.

The wailing, scratching, and begging didn't begin until the arrival of the moon.

I was uneasy. I don't think I've ever heard another werewolf scream. After their first transformation, was a werewolf's speech so clear to the point I was able to make out exactly what they were saying with painful clarity after just the second transformation? Earlier in my research, I concluded that werewolves weren't capable of clear speech until a few transformations later. Still, I chalked it up to a lack of knowledge that I needed to gain.

In the meantime, I went to their kitchen to eat what was left of their dried meats. With a clawed furry hand, I opened the storage room. The light from the moon revealed the sheriff's deputy, who was sitting on a barrel, in front of me. I locked eyes with him.

He froze, mouth agape, the color drained from his face. But he gritted his teeth and slugged the daylights out of me. I didn't even see stars as my vision went blank.