Some nights, the world feels like it’s already ended, it just hasn’t gotten around to telling anyone. People keep moving like it all still matters. They buy coffee, laugh too loud, talk about things that only make sense if tomorrow exists. I used to think I’d be one of them. I thought I’d have plans. A future you could actually hold in your hands, like the keys your new house, or a college diploma. But the thing about life is it doesn’t ask permission to burn down. One day you blink, and every door you thought would open has turned into a wall.
They say time heals everything. I think time just hides the wound under a layer of new scars, and you start pretending that’s the same thing as healing. I tell myself I’m fine with it. That I like the quiet. That I chose it. But sometimes, when the nights stretch too long and the world feels too still, I catch myself wondering what it would’ve been like: sitting in a classroom somewhere, half-asleep, worrying about nothing that mattered.
Sometimes I think that would’ve been enough.
The motel smelled like rain rot and bleach, like someone had tried to wash away time itself. The carpet clung to my boots when I walked. The wallpaper peeled near the corners, the pattern fading from gold to yellow to nothing. I sat cross-legged on the floor, the crossbow laid out across a towel. The parts were arranged by instinct: limbs, cams, string, bolts. It was a ritual by now. A way to pretend there was order in the work.
The TV droned on from the corner, spilling flickers of light across the walls. Another anchor. Another story. "THIRD ANIMAL ATTACK IN RIVERSIDE. TWO DEAD, ONE MISSING." I turned the sound low, listening more to the cadence than the words. They always talk the same way: calm, rehearsed, soft enough to make it sound like the world isn’t falling apart. I’d already been there, the first two scenes. Not officially, not cleanly, but close enough to see what everyone else missed. The first was a jogger by the river. The second, a man and woman in their backyard. The police are too dumb to realise, no one actually died by the river. They were moved there.
For both the runner and the couple, the back doors, positioned very closely to the river, were unlocked. Clean, hinges intact, no splinters, no break marks. Something had walked right in. A wild animal doesn’t open a door and wait inside. It doesn’t drag its prey toward the woods and stop halfway. It doesn’t clean up after itself. I’d seen the bodies. The first victim was missing half his torso, the other torn at the throat, blood soaked deep into the soil. It had fed, yes, but neatly. No scatter, no waste. Like someone eating a meal they’d waited days for.
I opened my notebook and flipped to the page I’d marked with a torn receipt. Two hand-drawn maps of the neighborhood. One for each attack. Same kind of house. Same direction of escape. Same crescent moon. The third red circle was already drawn. The police wouldn’t see the pattern for weeks. They’d still be setting up roadblocks and calling in wildlife control while the real thing was halfway across the county.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying not to think about the smell from the last scene, copper and wet dirt, the kind that sticks in your throat. I’d told myself a long time ago not to care about the details. But sometimes, when you see what’s left behind, you start to wonder what kind of hunger needs to break into a locked home just to feed.
The anchor’s voice bled through the static again, saying something about curfews and extra patrols. It wouldn’t matter. Patrols make noise. Noise makes things hide. I muted the TV and let the rain take over. The sound outside was steady, a rhythm against the thin window. The neon sign flickered red across the curtains, turning the whole room into a slow heartbeat. I reassembled the crossbow, checked the string tension, and loaded a bolt. The motion was automatic. My hands knew the pattern before my thoughts caught up.
On the bed lay a folded map, dotted with circles and notes scrawled in smudged ink. The red marks formed a curve that bent toward the river. That’s where it always went next, the water. Something about it drew them. Maybe the smell, maybe the reflection of the moon. Maybe both. Thunder rolled low outside, shaking the floor. The TV flickered once, then froze, the reporter’s face twisted mid-word before the image collapsed into static. For a moment, I just listened. The static whispered in its own language. I could almost hear words in it if I stared long enough. I shut it off and sat in the dark for a while. Just the rain, and the faint ticking of the fan. The town was quiet now. Too quiet. The kind that comes before something wakes up.
I packed in silence, thinking about the sleepless night to come. The crossbow went first, wrapped in an old blanket and tucked into the trunk beside a duffel of bolts, rope, and bandages. The car waited under the flickering motel sign, a rust-bitten sedan that used to be blue, stolen two states back from someone who’d probably stopped missing it already. It coughed when it started, headlights flickering like it wasn’t sure it wanted to help. The perfect fit the job: forgettable, invisible, like me. I checked the map once more, circled the river, and drove out into the rain, the neon light shrinking in the rear-view until it was just another wound in the dark.
The rain had slowed to a mist by the time I reached the edge of town. The road was slick, shining like oil under the streetlights. Each one hummed softly the sound of dying bulbs, steady and rhythmic. I parked near the tree line and killed the engine. The silence felt too large, like the world was holding its breath. The neighborhood ahead was all split-level homes and pale siding, the kind of place that tried hard to look safe. Police tape fluttered across the backyard of the most recent attack, barely visible through the fog. I slipped under it, boots sinking into the wet soil. The air smelled like iron and rain.
The grass was flattened near the porch where two sets of footprints were set, both small, probably the victims. Their path ended at the back steps, where a trail of darker mud led toward the woods. I followed it with my flashlight low to the ground, beam sweeping in slow arcs. About ten yards in, the pattern changed. The tracks weren’t human anymore. The prints widened, heel fading into claw. Not quite paw, not quite boot. The ground here was soft, and whatever it was had weight heavy, deliberate weight.
The path ended at the riverbank. The current moved dark and smooth, barely whispering over the rocks. I could see where something had knelt impressions in the mud, deep enough to pool water. I crouched, brushing my gloved fingers over the surface. Cold. The edges sharp, recent. There was something else there too, a faint shimmer when the light hit just right. Oil-like residue, catching the reflection of the moon. I’d seen it before. The blood of something that shouldn’t exist.
The wind shifted. A smell rose off the water. Metallic, but not human. I lifted my crossbow and listened. At first there was nothing. Just the rain ticking off the trees, the whisper of water, the distant hum of traffic miles away. Then a sound: faint, wet, deliberate. From somewhere just beyond the treeline.
Breathing. Slow. Controlled.
I moved a step closer, keeping low. The woods pressed in tighter, shadows breaking under each flash of lightning. Then I saw it. Not clearly, not enough for details, but enough to feel it looking back. Two eyes, pale and reflective, catching the light like mirrors. Too low to be human. Too high to be an animal. The rain started again, harder this time. The eyes blinked once, then were gone, swallowed by the dark. I held my breath and waited, the crossbow steady, heart pounding in time with the storm. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.
When I finally lowered the weapon, the world felt thinner somehow. Like something had stepped just out of sight, but not far enough to stop watching. I turned back toward the car, the mud sucking at my boots. The river whispered behind me. Quiet, constant, like a voice repeating my name from under the water.
I stood there until the rain washed away the last traces of the footprints. The river swallowed its own reflection, the surface smoothing like it was ashamed of what it had shown me. Eventually, the cold pushed me back toward the car. The headlights caught the falling mist in sheets of silver, and for a second, I thought I saw something move between the trees again small, low, fast. Actually, it was smaller than it looked last time. When I blinked, though, it was gone. The road home was empty, just the hum of wet tires and the static of the radio that couldn’t quite hold a signal. Somewhere behind the noise, I thought back to the breathing again.
The motel was quieter than before. The rain had dulled to a whisper, a faint hiss against the window, like static between stations. The neon sign outside pulsed through the curtains, slow and tired red, then gone, then red again. I kicked the door shut and leaned my crossbow against the desk. My jacket dripped onto the carpet, leaving a dark trail to the chair. The air conditioner rattled once, coughed out a gust of stale air, and gave up. The room smelled faintly of old coffee. That was fine.
I filled the tiny machine in the corner, the one that looked older than I was, and watched the water disappear into the tank. The hiss and burble filled the silence while I wiped mud off my boots with a motel towel that used to be white. The smell of bitter grounds drifted through the air, and for a second, it felt different. Like staying up late for something that mattered. Like I was doing homework or an assignment. Like I was normal.
I poured the coffee into a chipped mug that someone had forgotten here. No logo, no writing. Just a crack along the rim that looked like a lightning strike. I blew on it, took a sip, and immediately regretted it. It tasted like burnt dust and regret. But I kept drinking anyway. It was warm. That was enough. I sat at the desk, opened the laptop, and waited. The fan stuttered, the screen flickered. A dying light pretending to be alive.
I typed: how to draw out a werewolf.
The search bar blinked, thought about it, then spat out pages of contradictions. Half the results were from conspiracy sites or ghost hunters. The rest were old forum posts by people who’d probably never seen blood outside a movie. Still, I read them all. It was something to do with the scent of blood, the smell of iron, the pull of running water carrying the scent of nature with it. All familiar notes in a song I hadn’t listened to in a while. I clicked through another page. A comment thread from 2009 talked about pitch frequencies, about how certain sounds could make them restless. Someone mentioned heartbeats too, how they could hear yours before you ever saw them. That one got to me.
I set the cup down, staring at my reflection in the dark screen. I could still hear my own heartbeat from earlier, pounding in my ears when I’d seen those eyes in the trees. Too fast. Too loud. I wondered if they’d heard it too. Another sip of coffee. The taste had gone worse somehow. I laughed under my breath. A short, dry sound that didn’t belong to anyone in particular. I flipped open the notebook instead, tracing the messy lines of the sketches I’d made: houses, attack paths, moon phases. My handwriting had gotten worse lately. Jagged, uneven, almost like someone else had written it.
Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this.
The thought came quiet but stuck like a splinter. My aim had been off tonight, half a second slower. My steps too loud. My nerves too sharp. I'm too young for this. I shouldn't be this way. I'm one slip up away from dying bloody, and for what? A stupid ideal, or the draw to revenge. I let out a deep sigh and told myself it was just exhaustion. That I’d been at this too long without rest. But deep down, the question had already settled in: What if I was never any good at this to begin with?
I noticed the TV was still on in the corner, static hissing across the screen. The noise filled the room like a heartbeat, steady and low. I left it on. The sound helped. I stretched out on the bed, crossbow within reach, the half-empty mug cooling on the table. The rain outside softened until it was just a memory. Sleep came in slow waves, dragging me under with it. Just before the dark took over, I thought I heard the faint echo of the river. Steady and cold, whispering through the static.
Morning came too fast. The air still smelled like rain, and my body felt heavier than it should. The sun hadn’t bothered to show up; the world was still gray, damp, quiet. I packed again. Same motions, same silence. The motel clerk didn’t look up when I dropped the key on the counter. That was fine. The less people remembered me, didn't look too hard at my face, the better. The car started on the third try. The road back to the forest was the same one I’d taken last night, but everything looked different now softer, almost harmless. I knew better.
The forest was still half-asleep when I got there. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around the roots like it didn’t want to leave. The air smelled of rain and iron, and every breath felt colder than it should have been for morning. The kind of cold that sneaks under your skin and sits there, waiting. The river was quieter now, just a thread of sound winding through the trees. I parked the car off the old service road and went the rest of the way on foot. The mud sucked at my boots, the branches hung heavy with water, and the light bled through in thin, trembling stripes. I told myself I was ready this time. The words felt hollow, but I said them anyway.
My crossbow hung loose at my side, safety off. The duffel bounced against my shoulder with each step, clanking quietly with the sound of bolts, a silver knife, a flask of water I hadn’t touched since last night. The woods were quiet, too quiet. No birds, no movement, just the occasional drip of water falling from the leaves. A few yards in, I found what I’d been looking for: fresh tracks. Deep, heavy impressions, spaced too far apart for any normal animal. They cut across the mud and disappeared into the thicker part of the forest. I crouched, tracing a claw mark with my glove. The edges were sharp, the soil still wet. Hours old, at most.
I followed them without thinking. Step by step, deeper into the dark. The trees closed in until the sky was just a narrow vein of gray above me. Every sound felt amplified — the crunch of my boots, the rasp of breath, the pulse in my ears. For a moment, I thought about turning back. The thought came quick and left quicker, like it had never been mine. You don’t get to turn back when you’ve built your life on chasing evil. The path sloped down toward the river again, slick with moss and old leaves. I caught myself on a branch, boots sliding, mud streaking my coat. The smell hit me before the sight did. Blood, sharp and cold, mixing with the damp earth. Something had died here recently.
I slowed down, crossbow up, and scanned the clearing ahead. The mist hung heavier here, thick enough to blur the edges of everything. Then I saw movement, small, slumped against a fallen log near the water. I froze. Raising my crossbow to eye-level, and flicking the scope to a magnified view.
She was barely visible through the fog, her body half-turned away. For a heartbeat, I thought she was just another body. A victim. Then she moved. Weakly, slowly, pressing one hand to her side. Her clothes didn’t fit the scene. Red striped thigh-highs. Torn jean shorts. A faded Green Day shirt with a tear at the shoulder. The kind of outfit you’d see behind a mall at sunset, not bleeding out in the woods. I took a step forward, mud sucking at my boots. The air felt heavier now, thick with the weight of wrongness. That’s when I saw her ears.
Soft, furred, twitching at every sound. Not quite wolf, not quite human. I hesitated, hand tightening on the crossbow. My first thought was infection. Some kind of transformation mid-stage, some cursed half-thing. But then she looked up. Her eyes caught the light like mirrors, golden at the edges, wide and desperate. She didn’t look feral. She looked afraid. I took another cautious step, and she bared her teeth. My breath caught. They weren’t wolf fangs. They were sharper, smaller, vampire fangs. Retractable, surgical. My mind froze trying to fit the pieces together: wolf ears, vampire fangs, a girl that shouldn’t exist. Then the woods erupted.
A snarl ripped through the air from my left. Deep, wet, furious. I spun, barely in time to see a mass of fur and claws crash through the undergrowth. The first werewolf hit me like a truck. I dove sideways, mud exploding around me as its claws shredded bark where my head had been. The growl shook through my chest. The second came from behind, faster. I rolled, raising the crossbow, and fired. The bolt struck deep in its chest, the creature’s howl echoing through the trees. It stumbled back, hit a trunk, and went still. I barely had time to reload before the first one was on me again. It slammed me into the ground, claws digging into my shoulder. Pain flared white, sharp and hot. My vision blurred.
Its breath was rancid, dripping with blood and foam. Its eyes, they were too focused, too human. I struggled, reaching for the knife at my belt, but it was too heavy. My arms trembled under the weight. For a second, everything slowed. The trees swayed above us, the rain hissed on the leaves, and I felt the edges of my life start to blur. All the reasons, all the revenge, all the noise. None of it mattered now. This shouldn't have been me...
A blur of motion, small but fast. The girl. She leapt from the shadows, a sound tearing out of her that didn’t belong to any human throat. She hit the werewolf’s neck and bit deep, fangs sliding in like knives. The creature howled, twisting, flinging her aside, but she held on. Blood sprayed across the clearing, hot and black in the rain. She tore again, and the sound stopped.
The weight lifted off my chest. I gasped, rolling over, staring at the two bodies the werewolf still twitching, the girl on her knees beside it, her mouth wet with blood. She looked back at me. For a heartbeat, we just stared. Her eyes were wild and bright, her face pale under the streaks of red. Then she ran. Quick, silent, gone between the trees before I could even reach for her. The world went quiet again, except for the rain.
I laid on the cold wet muddy floor of the forest, my vision tilted. I felt the wound in my shoulder pulsing, warm and wet, flowing. The trees blurred together, the smell of blood and river thick in the air. The last thing I saw before the dark took me was the moon breaking through the clouds, silver light spilling over the bodies at my feet.