The Black Fur Coat

As Sammy wore the coat and stared at his reflection, his body suddenly shivered with desire and pleasure - sensations that were foreign to him in his thirty-three years of existence. There was something about that coat that caught his interest ever since discovering it in the antique shop window when he came to and left work - the way the cuffs and hem were jaggedly cut, and the way its sleek black fur glistened with a glossy sheen, like dim stars in the darkest of nights.

“You know, I think this coat really suits you,” the shopkeeper said.

“Oh yeah?” Sammy asked, surprised.

“Well, it’s made for those who seek to roam beyond the confines of their own skin. And you strike me as that type,” they explained with a hint of a smile. “I’m not forcing you, though - you’re free to buy whatever tickles your fancy, but that’s why I do believe that the coat really suits you.”
“How much is it?” Sammy’s curiosity grew even though he found it hard to take his eyes off his reflection. However, he recoiled, stunned, when he heard the price - it cost far more than he thought.

“But we can spread the payment, if you like,” the shopkeeper offered kindly.

“That would be great,” Sammy said. “I’ll give you a deposit and start paying next week. But it’s definitely mine now though, is it?”

“Absolutely,” they confirmed, attaching a Sold label to the coat. “You can take it after paying the third installment.”

Afterwards, Sammy found himself silently stalking York’s cobblestone streets at night to gaze at the coat through the shop window. Each visit brought him more joy, for the coat was more enigmatic, like shadows that did not fade but were soft against his form. Gradually, his muscles somehow grew more toned despite never visiting the gym, and his newly-acquired reflexes enabled him to catch falling Vans shoeboxes and fragile objects before they could hit the ground. He could also effortlessly dodge oncoming cyclists on his way to work and back.

When Sammy had his work-free days, he spent his days running in the countryside, his bare soles making intimate contact with the English grass from Dean’s Park to the Knavesmire. His hearing slowly grew sharper, discovering sounds which were once unnoticed - squirrels chattering until they scurried back into their hollows in his presence, ducks in the river Ouse flapping their wings agitatedly before flying away at the sight of him, the wind whispering against his skin. His smell also grew keener; it was strange how he never before noticed that every animal could be distinguished by its own peculiar scent. He would even pause and keenly observe every animal he spotted during his runs after catching their scent, like the deer with its soft underbelly, or the pigeon with its tender flesh behind the feathers.

Sammy would return home obviously hungry, but he growled, dissatisfied, at most of the contents in his fridge. The smells of his favourite pizza, curry, and enchiladas now made him feel nauseous, so he bought a vast quantity of fruits, vegetables and nuts, eating them throughout the whole day to hopefully maintain his toned body. But afterwards, he still felt hungry, though certainly not for those.

He was cheered by an invitation to a family gathering at a buffet, hoping it would make him forget his insatiable hunger. He reveled in preparing for the occasion, letting his fingernails grow out slightly until he filed them into little sharp triangles. He smiled at himself in the mirror - a feline smile, it appeared. Come the night of the event, he came in a black, form-fitting look; posture upright and head high, he gracefully slunked around the space, exuding mystery and quiet confidence. Anyone his penetrative eyes met forever remained in his elusive gaze, despite preferring to skulk and sit on the sidelines.

In the middle of the event, Sammy noticed someone slicing up some rare roast beef. He reached his hand out and devoured a whole slice, and…oh! Mmm, yes! The raw tender meat, as he sank his sharp teeth, was succulent against his tongue, as he emitted soft, low, pleasurable hums. The juicy blood spurted onto his hands and flowed down his throat. He was ready to take another slice, until he realised hands were now useless, so he took it directly with his mouth. As he swallowed, he held up a bloodstained hand to his lips. His tongue—tentative at first, then with growing assurance—extended and licked the blood, igniting a sensation that felt oddly right.

He spent the rest of the night submitting to these newly released feral instincts that possessed him, and in the morning, he hurried to the antique shop to fetch the coat, as it would finally be his.

“This coat really suits you,” the shopkeeper said again, as they removed it from the mannequin and handed it to Sammy. Sammy pulled his shirt off, chucking it to the floor, and put the coat on. The black fur melded with his pale human flesh - he could no longer tell skin from skin, as he could see in the mirror. As he turned the collar up around his head, his face elongated, bones cracking; pupils slitting as his brown eyes shifted to a piercing yellow…

“Goodbye then, and thanks,” he said, rushing out of the shop. Time was running out and people would stop and stare at him in alarm, yet the impulse to strip naked and go down on all fours was too strong. As Sammy fled through the cobbled pavements and rows of gothic architecture, it took whatever willpower he had left to control his shifting body. Upon finally reaching the edge of his hometown, he ripped his trousers off and took his first leap on finally-freed paws. He shook his back and long tail, before sniffing the air and ground. Then, with a raspy roar of pleasure and joy, he sprinted northeast to the moorlands to join his fellow beasts.