Skinwalker's kin Chapter one - Part two
1549 Words
Skinwalker's Kin
Chapter One: The Call of Black Hollow (Part 2)
The wind carried no scent.
That was the first thing Rowan noticed as he stepped onto the porch.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the roof, splashing against the old wooden steps, but the usual smell of wet earth and pine was gone. The forest ahead seemed unnaturally empty, as though every living thing had fled moments before.
His fingers tightened around the broken wolf carving.
"Miriam!" he shouted.
His voice disappeared into the darkness.
No answer.
Only silence.
The porch light flickered once, then steadied again.
Rowan forced himself down the steps, every instinct screaming that crossing into the tree line was a mistake. The beam from his flashlight swept over muddy ground, catching fresh footprints. They were small—Miriam's boots—and they led toward the woods.
Another set of tracks crossed them.
These were enormous.
Each print was longer than Rowan's hand, ending in four deep claw marks that had sunk nearly two inches into the soaked earth.
His breathing slowed.
They weren't bear tracks.
They weren't wolf tracks either.
They were something in between.
He crouched, touching one of the impressions.
The mud was still warm.
Whatever had made them had been here only minutes ago.
A low growl rolled through the trees.
Rowan's head snapped upward.
It came from somewhere ahead, hidden beyond the curtain of mist.
"Miriam!"
Again, nothing.
He took another cautious step.
Then another.
The flashlight beam danced across ancient pines whose trunks twisted like weathered pillars. Moss hung from the branches in long gray strands, swaying despite the complete absence of wind.
His father had always warned him about this part of the forest.
"Never follow voices after sunset."
"Never answer if something calls your name from the trees."
"And if the woods ever become completely silent..."
His father had never finished that sentence.
At the time, Rowan had thought it was just another one of Elias Ashcroft's strange mountain superstitions.
Now, with clawed footprints leading into the darkness and his aunt missing, those forgotten warnings echoed inside his mind with uncomfortable clarity.
A branch cracked.
Not ahead.
Behind him.
Rowan spun.
Nothing.
The flashlight illuminated only rain-soaked undergrowth.
Another c***k.
To his left this time.
Then another to his right.
Whatever was out there wasn't trying to stay hidden.
It was circling him.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
"Who's there?"
The growling stopped.
A moment later came laughter.
Not loud.
Not mocking.
Soft.
Almost curious.
A child's laughter.
Rowan froze.
It drifted through the trees, moving farther away.
Then closer.
Then directly behind him.
He whirled around so quickly that the flashlight slipped from his hand and struck a rock.
The light flickered wildly before settling on a figure standing thirty feet away.
A little girl.
She couldn't have been older than eight.
She wore an old-fashioned white dress soaked with rain, her long black hair hanging over her face.
She stood perfectly still.
Barefoot.
"Hey!"
Relief rushed through him.
"What are you doing out here?"
She didn't answer.
Instead, she slowly lifted one hand and pointed deeper into the forest.
"Did you see an older woman?"
Still nothing.
The child remained motionless.
"Miriam?"
The girl tilted her head.
Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, she asked,
"Why did you come back?"
Rowan frowned.
"What?"
"You weren't supposed to."
The words sounded strangely mature coming from someone so young.
He took another cautious step toward her.
"My name's Rowan."
She smiled.
Not warmly.
Her lips stretched just a little too far.
"You smell like him."
"Like who?"
"The one beneath the mountain."
The temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Before Rowan could speak again, the child looked past him.
Fear flashed across her face.
"They're here."
She turned and ran.
"No—wait!"
He chased after her.
Branches whipped against his jacket as he pushed through the undergrowth.
The flashlight beam bounced wildly across rocks and tangled roots.
He caught glimpses of the white dress ahead.
Always just out of reach.
Then she disappeared.
Completely.
Rowan stumbled into a small clearing and stopped.
There was nowhere she could have gone.
No path.
No hiding place.
Only a ring of ancient standing stones rising from the earth.
Each stone was covered in faded symbols carved so deeply they had survived centuries of weather.
He approached cautiously.
One symbol caught his attention.
A wolf.
Another depicted a man.
A third showed both figures overlapping one another.
The final stone was different.
It showed a creature with antlers, claws, and human eyes.
Someone had scratched deep lines across that carving, as though trying to erase it.
A whisper drifted across the clearing.
"Leave..."
Rowan spun.
No one.
Again.
"Leave before the moon remembers."
The voice came from everywhere at once.
Then—
A howl shattered the silence.
Not one wolf.
Dozens.
The sound rolled through the mountains like thunder.
Close.
Far too close.
Rowan backed away from the stones.
Another howl answered.
Then another.
The forest erupted with movement.
Dark shapes darted between the trees.
Too large.
Too fast.
His survival instincts finally overcame his curiosity.
He ran.
The journey back to the cabin felt endless.
Twice he became disoriented, certain he was moving in circles.
The forest itself seemed different.
Trails appeared where none had existed.
Trees leaned at impossible angles.
The mist thickened until he could barely see five feet ahead.
Several times he caught movement pacing him just beyond the flashlight's reach.
Always matching his speed.
Never attacking.
Watching.
Studying.
Finally, the porch light appeared through the trees.
Relief flooded his chest.
He sprinted toward it.
The cabin looked exactly as he had left it.
Except...
The front door was closed.
Rowan stopped.
He distinctly remembered it hanging open.
Slowly, he climbed the steps.
The broken wolf carving was gone.
His muddy footprints had vanished.
Even the shattered glass inside the doorway had disappeared.
"What..."
He pushed the door open.
Warm light greeted him.
The fireplace burned brightly.
Coffee simmered in the kitchen.
Aunt Miriam sat peacefully in her rocking chair, knitting.
She looked up with mild annoyance.
"There you are."
Rowan stared.
His voice caught in his throat.
"You..."
She smiled.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I—I watched you disappear."
"What are you talking about?"
"The door was open."
"It wasn't."
"There was broken glass."
"No."
"There were footprints."
Miriam set down her knitting.
"Rowan."
Her expression softened.
"You've had a very long day."
"No."
His voice hardened.
"I know what I saw."
She stood.
"So does Black Hollow."
Before he could ask what she meant, three heavy knocks echoed from the front door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Neither of them moved.
No one in town visited after dark.
Another three knocks.
Miriam's face drained of color.
She whispered,
"Don't answer it."
The knocking continued.
Slow.
Patient.
Almost polite.
Rowan stepped toward the entrance.
"Stay back," Miriam warned.
He ignored her.
Whoever stood outside might know something.
Might have seen—
The knocking stopped.
Complete silence followed.
Rowan reached the door and slowly turned the handle.
It opened with a long creak.
No one stood outside.
Only a wooden box rested neatly on the porch.
Rain had begun falling again.
He picked up the box.
It was surprisingly light.
Old cedar.
No markings.
Inside lay a folded piece of black cloth.
Beneath it rested an antique silver compass.
Its glass face was cracked.
Instead of pointing north, the needle spun wildly before settling toward the forest.
A single envelope lay underneath.
His name had been written across it in dark ink.
ROWAN ASHCROFT
His hands trembled as he unfolded the letter.
The handwriting belonged unmistakably to his father.
If you are reading this, then I have failed.
Do not trust the sheriff.
Do not trust the church.
Do not trust anyone who knows your full name.
The blood they seek is yours.
Go beneath the cabin.
Find the Second Door.
Burn this letter after reading.
Rowan read it twice.
Then a third time.
His father had written it weeks before his death.
Perhaps months.
"Miriam..."
He looked up.
She was staring at the letter with quiet resignation.
"So," she murmured.
"He finally decided to tell you."
"You knew about this?"
"I knew this day would come."
"You could have warned me."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because once you know the truth..."
She looked toward the dark window.
"...the truth begins looking for you."
At that exact moment, something slammed into the side of the cabin with enough force to shake the entire building.
The walls groaned.
A picture frame crashed to the floor.
Another impact followed.
Harder this time.
The windows rattled violently.
Rowan rushed to the nearest one.
Outside, nothing moved.
Only darkness.
Then, slowly, two enormous amber eyes opened just beyond the reach of the porch light.
Higher than any wolf's eyes should have been.
They blinked once.
A deep voice, rough as grinding stone, drifted through the night.
"We know the heir has returned."
The eyes vanished.
The forest fell silent once more.
Rowan turned toward Miriam.
For the first time since he'd arrived home, she looked genuinely afraid.
"He found you," she whispered.
"No."
Her voice broke.
"He smelled your blood."
End of Chapter One – Part 2
- Writer
