This was originally posted on Substack on 28 July, 2023. It is is an original autobiographical story by me. Copyright Cliff Hansen (C) 2023.

Everyone is familiar with the myth of the werewolf. After a bite from a similar creature, an otherwise normal person transforms into a hirsute wolf-like monster at the full moon. It roams the countryside terrorizing the locals by forming polarizing love triangles with obnoxious teenage goth girls and vampires. By sunrise, the dangerous creature has reverted to a confused human, who often awakens in shredded clothes, the taste of blood in their mouth, and with an inexplicable habit of quivering in fear whenever the see silver jewelry or spoons.

But have you heard of the were-turtle?

To the best of my knowledge, there has only been one sighting of this cryptid which occurred in the Bitterroot Mountains of Montana in the late 1980s. This is that story. I know it well because I was there and it is time that the truth of the were-turtle be revealed. I swear that what you read below is the truth as far as I understood it as a child, and perhaps others will have their own stories of the were-turtle to share.

One summer, during my family’s yearly visit to our roots on Mount Ward, my Grandpa Potter told us a Beowulf-like story about how his fishpond was being terrorized. Fish food was disappearing, and a turtle was to blame. Clearly my grandpa and I had different definitions of what the word “terrorizing” means, but this turtle was his Grendel and he intended to stop it by any means he could.

Grandpa employed many methods to trap the turtle, but despite his years in the United States Navy intelligence, this turtle managed to accomplish what the Viet Kong was never able to do and it bested him. He tried every trick in the book, but it was as if the turtle had read the book, studied it carefully, and trained against it under the wise tutelage of Sensei Splinter.

In desperation, Grandpa turned to a single-digit-year-old Cliff and offered him fifty dollars if he could catch the turtle. Fifty dollars was a lot of money to me in 1991. Hell, it’s a lot of money now. If you adjust for inflation, I could probably have bought a home with that money, had I received it, but I’ve gotten ahead of myself.

Grandpa lived on a washboard road called Goldcreek. Though it is conveniently paved today, the road then lived up to its name, it shone brilliantly in the sunlight and it often flowed with water. Despite pledges that snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night would keep couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds, Goldcreek proved too much for even the sturdy postmen of Montana. Grandpa’s mailbox was a mile or so away downhill, but it was a pleasant walk for a boy and his grandpa.

As we walked, Grandpa Potter taught me about tracking. This was the footprint of a moose that had walked by recently, that was the scat of a bear from a week past. Occasionally we’d see snakes or eagles and Grandpa would have a story about each one of them, handed down for generations, he claimed, by our Cherokee ancestors. I enjoyed Grandpa’s stories, and I learned much from them all, but I always kept an eye out for Grendel the Turtle because fifty dollars could buy me any number of superhero action figures, including the new limited edition Clark Kent figure (which you knew was rare because it didn’t even have those weird holes in the bottom of its feet).

One day, as we approached Grandpa’s home, there it was! In the middle of the road, strutting on its stubby legs toward the ponds as if it had every right to do so, was the turtle! This was my moment, I was going to capture Grendel!

Without a moment’s pause or hesitation, I ran toward the creature as fast as I could, and I grabbed it with both hands. It was my prisoner! The turtle was heavier than I expected, and its markings were beautiful. Grandpa would later call it a “painted turtle”. I held my captive over my head triumphantly and turned toward my grandpa so he could see my victory.

Grandpa had a strange expression on his face, which I didn’t fully understand until I was an adult. While we lack a specific word for his emotional display in the English language, it can best be described by the phrase, “goddamn it, I wonder if there’s a way I can avoid giving that kid all the money I promised him…” I have since held that expression on many occasions and understand it well.

Before my grandpa was forced to confront the fact that I was the champion who had captured his enemy and fully expected to be rewarded with my prize, the son of a bitch bit me! To clarify, it was the turtle that bit me, not my grandpa. More shocked than in pain, I dropped the turtle, which scurried into the brush apparently unfazed by its fall. To the best of my knowledge, it was never seen again.

I was stunned. I don’t remember if I cried, but I do remember looking at my grandpa. He held another expression that also lacks an appropriate word in English, but was one I was quite familiar with from him. It was “If I laugh my ass off, it’ll probably emotionally damage the kid, but goddam that was funny, and I might not be able to keep this in!”

Instead of laughing at me, my grandpa apologized. He asked if the bite hurt, and I said no. He said I was brave both to go after the turtle and to deal with what was going to happen tonight. I told him that I didn’t understand. Grandpa pointed at the moon, which was full and white in the blue sky. He said that because I was bit under the full moon, I was now a were-turtle. For the rest of my life when there was a full moon, I would transform into a turtle, find the nearest pond or other body of water, and go for a swim, possibly eating flies and stealing fish food.

This was a lot for a child to take in and I tried to process it as best I could. Was this new aspect of my identity scary? Sure, but it also sounded exciting, except for the eating flies and fish food bit.

We went back to Grandpa’s home and had ice cream, probably maple pecan, though I can’t remember exactly since my mind was focused on the turtle and my newly acquired monster abilities.

I woke up in the morning soaked with water. My first thought was that I had peed the bed, but then I remembered that I was a were-turtle. My grandpa was conveniently passing the guestroom right as I woke up, and he told me the shocking story about how, in the middle of the night and under the full moon, I had transformed into a were-turtle before his very eyes! I had waddled down to his pond and swam with his fish, before making my way back to his guest room where I woke up and apparently soaked the bed with pond water.

This was a lot to take in, and Grandpa offered to tell my parents about my transformation because nothing in my childhood had properly prepared me for that kind of discussion. I saw him whispering the story to them when I was eating breakfast, though his reveal garnered more laughter than I expected.

Years went by. I never heard any witnesses describing my monthly transformation into a were-turtle, but this was hardly surprising since I lived in a rural part of Eastern Washington. While my family had a nearby pond for the were-turtle to bask in, I no longer woke up soaked in pond water at the full moon. I just assumed the were-turtle part of my nature had just gotten better at drying off before transforming back into a human. Becoming a turtle every month just wasn’t something I thought about anymore, it was like my eye color, something that was a part of me, but just wasn’t in the front of my mind anymore.

Years after the turtle bite, I was a cub scout, going on a camping trip with some friends. I hadn’t realized this before the trip, but the campout coincided with the full moon. So, as we hung out by the campfire, I prepared my friends for what I knew would be a bit of a shock. I told them the story I have just shared with you. I informed them that there was no need to worry, but I would be transforming into a turtle in the middle of the night. If they didn’t stop me from attempting to go swimming, I would try really hard not to bite them, but I never had any memories of what my turtle form did, so I didn’t know how much control I had over the situation. My friends didn’t believe I was telling them the truth and wanted evidence but I explained that we accepted a lot of other things on faith. Finally, it was agreed that everyone would stay awake and watch me transform. I figure as long as they didn’t get themselves bitten, it would be okay, and even if they did get bit, being a were-turtle hadn’t really interfered with my life and it might be nice to have some friends share the experience.

Unfortunately, everyone fell asleep, so no one was able to witness my transformation.

And that brings us to today. Now I’m an adult, and sadly Grandpa Potter is no longer with us. To this date, no girlfriends or roommates have ever witnessed the were-turtle which has gone unseen since its Montana debut. To be honest, there are days when doubt the reality that every full moon, I turn into a turtle cryptid. But skepticism in the face of so much evidence is just silly! I remember getting the turtle bite clearly as well as the feeling of waking up in cold water in Grandpa’s guest room. True enough, Grandpa was a witness to the were-turtle just as he was when he told me about seeing Santa or the leprechaun rooster. Just because I never saw those things myself, doesn’t mean they didn’t exist! I guess that’s what faith is.

Confessions of a Were-Turtle by Cliff Hansen is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0