Moombound

Chapter One – The Return Raven Hollow smelled like secrets. Kael Morgan stepped out of the car, boots sinking into damp pine needles. Mist curled along the forest edge like a living thing, hissing beneath the tires as the engine cooled. His breath came in clouds—sharp with the sting of mountain air and memory. He hadn’t been back in ten years, not since he left with a duffel bag, a busted lip, and the taste of blood in his mouth. But here he was, back again, summoned by a phone call from a sheriff he barely remembered. His mother was dead. A heart attack, they said. Quick. Painless. Alone. The house loomed ahead—an aging colonial beast of wood and bone, sagging like it had exhaled and never remembered to breathe in again. Vines strangled the front porch railing. The wind chimes on the eave jangled a low, off-key warning. Kael adjusted the strap on his shoulder. The duffel was heavy with clothes and heavier with guilt. He hadn’t called. Hadn’t written. And now it was too late. The porch groaned beneath his boots, just like it used to when he’d sneak out past curfew. Some things didn’t change. Others never had a chance. He put his hand on the rusted doorknob, hesitated. A whisper of movement flickered in the corner of his eye—just beyond the tree line. Something too tall, too still to be a deer. He turned. Nothing there. “Get it together,” he muttered, and pushed the door open. The house greeted him with silence. Not the peaceful kind—more like the hush of a place that had been holding its breath for too long. The air smelled of cedar, dust, and something fainter, sharper—like iron. Blood? He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. White sheets draped the furniture like shrouds. The floorboards bowed beneath his weight. In the hearth, a pile of ash sat cold—but not old. Maybe a few days, not a week. His mother had been dead that long. Who had lit the fire? He moved slowly, checking each room with the practiced paranoia of someone who’d lived rough too long. Kitchen. Empty. Dishes still in the sink. A single coffee mug, unwashed. The back door was locked. Windows closed. The air too still, too stale. In the hallway, a mirror leaned cracked against the wall. He caught his reflection and paused. He looked older than twenty-eight. Gaunt. Tired. Something in his eyes he didn’t recognize—something feral, maybe. The shadows under his eyes were deep, as if sleep had become a stranger. His mother’s bedroom door was open. The bed made. Bible on the nightstand. A rosary hanging from the bedpost, twisted like it had been gripped too tight. He didn’t step inside. Instead, he climbed the stairs to his old bedroom, hand trailing along the warped banister. The door was shut. He opened it slowly. The room looked untouched. The same faded posters on the wall—bands he didn’t even like anymore. The same twin bed, same crooked bookshelf. But something felt… off. He turned to the far wall and froze. Dozens of scratchy drawings covered the wallpaper. Wolves. Some running. Some howling. Some tearing things apart. Clawed hands. Red eyes. Ink dark and frantic. Kael stepped closer. The images weren’t familiar. He didn’t remember drawing them. But something in his gut turned when he looked at them—like a memory trying to crawl back into place. He sat on the bed. The springs creaked, complaining. He rubbed his hands together. They were trembling. He hadn’t told the sheriff everything. Not the sleepwalking. Not the blackouts. Not waking up in the woods outside Portland with blood on his shirt and no memory of how he got there. Not the dreams—the teeth, the running, the howling. Something was wrong with him. Had been for months. The fire crackled downstairs. He hadn’t lit it. Hadn’t even touched the matches yet. Kael stood, slow and quiet. Every instinct screamed at him to leave. But he didn’t. He crept back down the stairs. The air was colder now. The fire roared in the hearth, too strong, too hot. He reached the living room and stopped dead. There were muddy footprints on the floor—leading from the fireplace to the hallway. Barefoot. Too large to be his mother’s. Fresh. He followed them to the back door. It was locked from the inside. He turned, heart hammering. The wind outside moaned like a living thing. Something howled in the distance—long, guttural, and wrong. Not a dog. Not a wolf. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His breath fogged in the cold. But deep in his chest, under the fear, something else stirred.