Wolfbound

Chapter One - This Place Smells Like Wet Dogs and

I arrive at the edge of Greystone Hollow with nothing but a half-dead car and a folder containing a property deed signed in someone else's handwriting.

The first thing I notice is how quiet it is. Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind you romanticize with acoustic music and a wind chime. This quiet is dead. The kind that presses against your ears like water when you’re sinking too deep.

If I had any other options, I wouldn’t be here. But I don’t. So here I am.

The cabin is at the very end of a dirt road that looks like it gave up being a road a long time ago. My GPS stopped functioning eons ago and my phone keeps flickering between “No Service” and “Emergency Calls Only,” which is really comforting.

The cabin itself looks like something a serial killer would Airbnb when they need a break from the city. The paint is peeling in long, tired strips. The windows are dusty and dark. One of the shutters is hanging off, held by a single rusty hinge that squeals with every gust of wind.

I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment longer, staring at the place that’s supposed to be my fresh start. I should feel something. Excitement, maybe. Or dread. But all I feel is tired. Bone-deep, nerve-fraying, soul-rotting tired.

It’s been five months since my mother died. She was all I had left. I don’t miss her voice, or her hugs, or her cooking. I miss the idea of her. I miss what she could’ve been if she hadn’t been so damn broken. And what I could’ve been if she’d tried a little harder.

This cabin belonged to her mother. A woman I never met. A woman my mom never talked about, except once when she was drunk and muttering about "the Hollow" like it was cursed. Maybe it is. Wouldn’t be surprised.

I finally step out of the car. My boots hit gravel. Everything smells like damp wood and the kind of moss that grows on forgotten graves. The air has a sharp bite to it, even though it’s not that cold.

“Okay,” I say to no one. “Let’s see what horrors you’ve got in store, creepy cabin.”

The front steps creak under my weight. The key the lawyer mailed me barely works, and I have to shoulder the door open. It groans like it hasn’t been used in years. Probably because it hasn’t.

Inside, the air is thick and smells of dust, rot, and something else. Something I can’t name.

The living room is small, crammed with furniture covered in white sheets like the ghosts were getting cozy. I pull one off a couch and immediately regret it. The cushion underneath is stained with something that looks suspiciously like dried blood. We’ll pretend it’s wine.

The floorboards sigh with every step I take. There are books on the shelf with titles I don’t recognize and a painting above the mantle of a forest that looks exactly like the one outside. Except in the painting, there are eyes in the trees.

“I hate it here,” I say, louder this time.

But I’m staying. Because the rent is zero and the bills are nonexistent and I need time to figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life. I’m not ready to face the world again. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

There’s a bedroom down the hall. The bedframe is metal and squeaky. The mattress is surprisingly clean, though it smells like mothballs and regret. I drop my duffle bag on it and lie down fully clothed and stare up at the ceiling.

A cobweb hangs from the light fixture. It sways slightly, even though there’s no draft.

I close my eyes and let the tiredness take over, falling into a dreamless sleep.

---

The knock comes just after sunset.

Three quick raps. No hesitation.

I sit up, pulse quickening. I didn’t tell anyone I was here. I don’t even have internet. The only place I went today was the tiny gas station at the edge of town, where the yellow-eyed cashier stared at me like I’d grown a second head. No one spoke. No one smiled.

Another knock. This time slower. Heavier.

I grab the flashlight from my bag and edge toward the door.

“Who is it?” I ask.

Silence.

I crack the door open, just enough to peek through and see who's there. There’s a man standing on the porch, half in shadow. Tall. Hooded. Hands in his pockets like he’s waiting to be invited in. Something about his mere presence sends a shiver down my spine. What if he's aware that no one knows I'm here and barges in and murders me in this haunted cabin?

“Nope,” I mutter, stepping back.

But before I can turn away, he speaks.

“You’re the girl. Eleanor’s granddaughter.”

Not a question. A statement.

“Uhh, I suppose so?" I say, sounding like a question instead of a statement.

He shifts slightly, enough that the porch light catches his face. Sharp cheekbones. Tired eyes. A jaw that looks like it’s clenched more often than it’s not.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

I open the door slightly, just enough to glare at him. “Cool. You gonna call the police or are you here to deliver a creepy monologue?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something more bitter.

“Stay inside after dark. And don’t go into the woods.”

“Wow. Thanks, cryptic stranger. Can I offer you a cup of tea and a warning of my own? Maybe something like ‘don’t talk to girls with childhood trauma and kitchen knives’?”

That gets a reaction. Barely. His eyes narrow.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

We stare at each other for a moment that stretches longer than it should. The wind picks up behind him, carrying the scent of pine and something more feral.

He turns without another word and walks back down the path, disappearing into the trees like he was never there.

I shut the door and lock it. Twice.

“Definitely cursed,” I mutter.

---

Night in Greystone feels different. Thick and heavy, like ink bleeding through paper. It seeps into the corners of the room, clings to the windowpanes and pushes against the walls like it wants in. It feels like something wearing night as a disguise.

I lie in bed with the blanket pulled up to my chin, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. The air presses down on me, stale and unmoving, as if even the oxygen is holding its breath.

Somewhere outside, the forest hums.

I sigh, grab my phone, and try to scroll away the unease. Of course there’s no service. Just that cold, mocking "No Signal" in the corner like a reminder I’ve officially disappeared from the world. I toss the phone onto the mattress and watch it bounce once, then go still.

I close my eyes. They burn a little, the way they do when sleep wants to claim you but your thoughts won’t shut up. My mind starts playing tricks, pulling memories I don’t want, stitching them to things that don’t belong to me.

Still, sleep drags me under. It always does. I’ve never been one to resist the pull. If life won’t give me peace, then I'll sleep it off.

But tonight, peace doesn’t come. I dream of wolves. Which is weird because I don't even think about wolves ever.

Not storybook wolves, all fur and symbolism. Not sleek, majestic predators running through snowy forests on nature shows.

These ones are wrong.

Too big. Too quiet. Limbs that move like shadows underwater. Jaws that stretch too wide. Yellow eyes that glow in the dark like candle flames caught in storm glass.

And they know me.

One of them stands at the edge of the forest. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches, with those eyes that look too human and not human enough. Eyes like the ones in the painting, sharp and endless.

I want to run, but I can’t. My feet won’t move. My voice won’t work.

It steps forward. Its mouth opens, not to bite, but like it wants to speak.

And just before it does, I wake up gasping.

In the morning, I convince myself it was just a dream. A leftover thread from insomnia or that weird sandwich I had two nights ago at a dinner in Chicago. Nothing more.

The window, definitely open even though I don't quite remember opening it. But maybe I forgot. Maybe I was hot. Maybe a breeze unlatched it. Maybe ghosts. Who knows.

I make coffee even though I hate coffee. I always have. It tastes like burnt decisions and depression, but I drink it anyway because I need something bitter in my mouth that isn’t my own damn thoughts. It goes down like punishment.

I clean more of the cabin, scrubbing grime off surfaces like I’m trying to erase history. There’s dust in the corners that looks older than me. Cobwebs that stretch like ghosts refusing to let go. I find a drawer full of handwritten letters, all addressed to “Eleanor,” but most are just pages of numbers and strange symbols. I close that drawer and pretend I didn’t see anything.

I try not to look at the painting above the fireplace. The one with the eyes in the trees. They weren’t glowing last night, but this morning, they look sharper. Hungrier. Maybe it’s just the light. Maybe it’s my imagination. Either way, I toss a blanket over it and mutter, “Not today, demon forest.”

Around noon, I decide to walk into town, even though my legs feel heavy and the forest leans in too close to the path. Every branch looks like it wants to whisper. Every gust of wind carries something that doesn’t quite smell like wind.

Town is small. Smaller than small. More like a cluster of buildings pretending to be a community. The air smells like motor oil and damp wood. People glance at me like I’m mold growing on their family tree. They don’t smile. They don’t wave. They just watch.

So I smile. Wide. Big teeth. Out of pure, undiluted spite.

I stop at the diner on Main Street. The sign says “Etta’s” and the E is barely hanging on. Inside, it smells like bacon grease and stale coffee. I order a sandwich because it’s safe, and sit near the back.

While I eat, I overhear two old men in the booth behind me. They talk like people who have lived here too long and seen too much. One of them has a voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. The other speaks softer, like he’s afraid the walls might be listening.

They’re arguing about something called “the bond.”

“It’s not supposed to happen twice,” the gravel voice says.

“She’s not from here. She doesn’t know the rules,” the softer one replies.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s starting. You felt it too.”

Then they go quiet. Completely. Like a switch flipped. I glance over my shoulder just a little, just enough to catch them both staring straight ahead, not saying a word. Not even chewing. Just... still.

Like statues.

I finish my sandwich in silence, suddenly very aware of how alone I am. And how many people in this town don’t blink.

I go home before sunset. There’s a dead rabbit on my porch. Fresh. Still warm. Its throat is torn open. A gift.

Or a warning.

I stand there, staring at it, and for the first time since I arrived, I feel something sharp twist in my gut.

Not fear. Recognition.

Something is watching me. And I think it’s waiting for me to see it.