Skinwalker's kin

Skinwalker's Kin Chapter One: The Call of Black Hollow (Part 1) The rain began long before Rowan Ashcroft crossed the county line. It fell in thin silver sheets, blurring the cracked highway into a ribbon of black glass that disappeared beneath the headlights of his aging pickup. The windshield wipers scraped back and forth with a tired rhythm, barely keeping pace with the storm gathering over the mountains. Black Hollow waited ahead. Even after eight years away, Rowan recognized the silhouette of the peaks rising through the mist. Their jagged ridges clawed at the sky like broken teeth, swallowing the last traces of daylight. Beyond them lay the town he had spent most of his childhood trying to escape—a place where strangers were watched from behind lace curtains, where silence carried more weight than words, and where every path through the forest seemed to lead somewhere people refused to speak about. His father used to say the mountains remembered every secret buried beneath them. Rowan had laughed whenever he heard it. Now, with his father dead and a folded death certificate sitting on the passenger seat, the words didn't seem nearly as foolish. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The funeral had been held three counties away, in the city where his father had been found. A hunting accident, the sheriff had called it. Rowan didn't believe that. His father had spent thirty years teaching him how to survive the wilderness. Elias Ashcroft could track wolves across frozen ground, identify poisonous plants in the dark, and shoot the eye out of a deer from two hundred yards. Men like him didn't die because they wandered off a trail. Something about the official report had always felt incomplete. The radio hissed with static before a familiar voice broke through. "...storm warning remains in effect for Black Hollow and surrounding mountain regions. Residents are advised to avoid entering the national forest after sunset due to increased wildlife activity..." Rowan switched it off. Wildlife activity. That was how outsiders explained everything. Missing hikers. Slaughtered livestock. Entire camps abandoned overnight. He had grown up hearing whispers no weather report would ever mention. As the truck rounded the final bend, the old wooden welcome sign emerged from the fog. WELCOME TO BLACK HOLLOW Population: 1,276 Someone had carved deep claw marks across the bottom of the sign. Fresh ones. Rowan frowned. Probably teenagers. At least, that was the explanation his rational mind offered. The other part of him—the part shaped by years spent in this town—wasn't so sure. Black Hollow looked smaller than he remembered. The gas station still leaned crookedly beside the highway. The diner still glowed with warm yellow lights. The hardware store still displayed rusted tools no one had bought in decades. Nothing changed here. It was as though time itself had forgotten the town existed. People noticed him immediately. An old man paused while loading groceries. A woman standing beneath an umbrella stopped speaking mid-sentence. Two children riding bicycles slowed to stare. Rowan recognized none of them. Yet they recognized him. That unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The Ashcroft name carried history here. History no one discussed openly. He drove past the church and into the northern edge of town, where narrow roads disappeared beneath towering pines. His childhood home stood exactly where memory had left it. A weather-beaten cabin rested beside a frozen creek, surrounded by acres of dense forest. The porch sagged. Paint peeled from the walls. The chimney leaned slightly to one side. Home. Rowan killed the engine. For several moments he simply sat there. Rain drummed against the roof. The forest beyond the cabin stood utterly still. No birds. No insects. No wind. Silence settled over everything like a heavy blanket. He climbed out, retrieved his duffel bag, and walked toward the porch. The front door creaked open before he reached it. An elderly woman stepped outside. Her silver hair had been braided neatly down her back, and despite the rain, she wore no coat. "You're late," she said calmly. Rowan blinked. "Aunt Miriam?" She smiled faintly. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten us." He hadn't seen her in nearly a decade. Age had lined her face, but her sharp gray eyes remained unchanged. She embraced him without another word. For a brief moment, Rowan allowed himself to relax. Then she whispered against his ear. "They know you've come back." His body stiffened. "Who?" She pulled away. Instead of answering, she looked toward the forest. "The ones who never stopped watching." Inside, the cabin smelled of cedarwood, coffee, and old books. Everything remained almost exactly as Elias had left it. His favorite chair. The antique hunting rifle above the fireplace. Stacks of journals cluttering every shelf. A kettle simmered on the stove. "You've been staying here?" Rowan asked. Miriam nodded. "Someone had to." "You could've called." "I did." "You left one voicemail." "You never answered." Rowan looked away. Fair enough. Life in Chicago had become an endless cycle of work, rent, and sleepless nights. Distance had been easier than confronting old memories. Until now. Miriam poured coffee into two mugs. "You look tired." "I drove twelve hours." "No." She studied him carefully. "You look haunted." He forced a laugh. "I inherited that from Dad." Her smile disappeared. "No." "You inherited something else." The room fell silent. Rowan frowned. "What does that mean?" Miriam didn't answer. Instead, she walked toward the living room bookshelf and removed a weathered photograph. She handed it to him. It showed his father standing beside three unfamiliar men deep within the forest. Each wore dark hunting clothes. Each carried an old-fashioned lantern. Each stared directly at the camera. Only Elias smiled. "Who are they?" "They were your father's brothers." "I don't remember them." "You never met them." "What happened?" "They disappeared." "When?" "The night you were born." Rowan looked up sharply. "What?" "They entered Hollow Forest." "And?" "They never came back." Rain hammered against the windows. Miriam took the photograph from his hands. "Your father spent twenty-four years searching for them." "I thought Dad was an only child." "That's what he wanted you to believe." She returned the photograph to the shelf. "Sometimes the truth protects no one." That night sleep refused to come. Rowan unpacked only enough to survive the weekend before lying awake in his childhood bedroom. Moonlight filtered through cracked curtains. The ceiling looked exactly as it had when he was sixteen. He remembered lying here listening to wolves howl beyond the trees. His father had always f*******n him from leaving the cabin after dark. Never once had he explained why. Back then Rowan assumed it was ordinary parental caution. Now... Not so much. A faint tapping interrupted his thoughts. Tap. Tap. Tap. His eyes opened. The sound came from the window. Branches, he assumed. Except... There wasn't a tree close enough. Tap. Tap. Tap. Slower now. Intentional. Rowan climbed out of bed and approached cautiously. Rain had stopped. Mist drifted across the yard. Nothing stood outside. He frowned. Probably an animal. As he turned away— Tap. Directly behind him. The bedroom door. Someone—or something—knocked three times. His heartbeat quickened. "Miriam?" No answer. He opened the door. The hallway lay empty. Only darkness greeted him. Then came another sound. A whisper. Not from ahead. From downstairs. "...Rowan..." His blood froze. It sounded exactly like his father's voice. Impossible. He descended one step at a time. Each wooden stair groaned beneath his weight. The living room remained dark except for dying embers inside the fireplace. "Miriam?" Silence. Again the whisper. "...help me..." It came from beneath the cabin. The basement. Rowan remembered that basement. His father had always kept it locked. Always. He reached the bottom floor. The basement door stood slightly open. It had never stood open. A cold draft escaped through the gap. He hesitated. Then slowly pushed it wider. Stone steps disappeared into darkness. The smell hit him first. Wet earth. Ancient wood. Something metallic. Blood? No. Rust. Probably rust. He found an old flashlight hanging beside the door and switched it on. Its weak beam cut through the darkness. Boxes lined the walls. Old furniture gathered dust beneath white sheets. Nothing unusual. Until he noticed the floor. Fresh muddy footprints. Bare feet. Leading deeper inside. Someone had been here. Recently. His pulse quickened. "Who's there?" No response. The footprints ended before an enormous oak cabinet built directly into the stone wall. Rowan stared. He didn't remember that cabinet. He stepped closer. One of its doors stood slightly ajar. Inside... No shelves. No storage. A narrow tunnel. Hidden behind the cabinet. His flashlight illuminated rough stone walls disappearing into darkness beneath the mountain. He swallowed hard. "What the hell..." A sudden crash echoed upstairs. Glass shattered. Then Miriam screamed. "ROWAN!" He spun and sprinted toward the stairs. By the time he reached the living room, the front door hung open, banging violently against the frame. Rain swept inside once more. "Miriam!" No answer. The old woman was gone. Only one thing remained on the floor where she'd been standing. A wooden carving. A wolf. Split cleanly in half. And outside, just beyond the porch, something enormous moved between the trees. Not running. Watching. Two amber eyes glowed in the darkness before vanishing into the forest. Rowan stood frozen, every instinct urging him to slam the door shut and pretend none of it had happened. Instead, he picked up the broken carving. On its underside, carved so faintly he almost missed it, were seven words: When the wolves return, never trust their faces. End of Chapter One – Part 1