The First Howl

When Elias Wake opened his eyes, the sky was bleeding orange and pink—the calm hues of a sunrise that didn’t match the chaos in his chest. He was lying on the damp earth, naked, covered in scratches, blood, and leaves. His whole body throbbed with pain, like he’d gone ten rounds with a bear and lost. He couldn’t remember the night before. Just broken flashes: the cold, the moon, the running. A howl. And pain. So much pain. “s**t,” he muttered, teeth chattering as he pushed himself up. His muscles screamed in protest. He was deep in the forest—he recognized the moss-covered stones and the gully north of Graypine Ridge. Familiar land, but something felt… off. The nearest trail was at least a mile east. He wrapped one arm around his ribs and limped through the underbrush. Every twig and thorn scraped against his raw skin, making him wince. Even the birds overhead sounded sharper than usual, their cries cutting through the stillness like glass. His throat was dry, but his tongue tasted metallic. Copper. Blood. The Wake cabin stood alone on the edge of the woods, tucked beneath a canopy of trees too thick for sunlight and too tangled for power lines. His father, Isaac Wake, had built it with his own hands. “Distance is safety,” the man always said, though he never explained from what. Isaac was gone now—three years since the accident. Elias stumbled through the back door and into the kitchen. The clock on the wall blinked 6:08 a.m. No power. Again. The scent of damp wood and stale coffee grounds lingered in the air. Everything looked the same, but nothing felt right. He grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around himself, his skin cold and stinging. In the bathroom mirror, he barely recognized his reflection—pale skin, dark circles under his eyes, and a smear of dried blood trailing from his ear down to his collarbone. His fingernails—no, claws—were cracked, caked with dirt and something darker. That’s when panic truly set in. What the hell happened to me? Bits of memory surfaced like oil on water: the splitting pain in his bones, the sound of joints snapping out of place, the growl building in his throat. Hunger—deep and wild—not for food, but something rawer. Something alive. His stomach lurched. He doubled over the sink and vomited, shaking. After rinsing his mouth, he leaned on the counter, breathing hard. The mirror fogged with each exhale. For just a second, he saw something else in the reflection. A figure. Eyes glowing like embers in the dark. He spun around. Nothing. “Get a grip,” he whispered, rubbing his face with both hands. His skin felt too tight. His body was buzzing—tensed like it was waiting for something. He drifted back to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. The silence was heavy, like the house was holding its breath. Floorboards creaked in slow, deliberate groans. Elias flinched at every sound. Then he heard it. A faint scratching at the back door. Soft. Measured. Like claws testing wood. He froze. The noise stopped. Heart pounding, he grabbed the fire poker from beside the hearth. His fingers trembled as he crept toward the door, blanket clutched tightly around his shoulders like armor. He eased the door open a sliver. Just trees. Just shadows. But something had been there. He could feel it. Not in his head—but in his chest. In his blood. He shut the door. Locked it. Took a step back. The air inside suddenly felt colder. He looked around for his phone. Dead. No signal anyway—not this deep into the pines. And then it hit him—fast and violent. A memory, as real as the room around him. Eyes like molten gold. A low, bone-deep growl. Blood—everywhere. His hands slick with it. His own roar echoing through the night. The loss of control. He had attacked something. Or someone. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. That wasn’t me.” But even as the words left his lips, something inside him whispered otherwise. He looked down at his arms. Bruised. Torn. Healing far too quickly. He wasn’t just hurt. He was changing. And the worst part? A part of him liked it.