The Wolf Beneath

Leah Carter's Point of View They say Silver Hollow is peaceful. Maybe it is, if you're the kind of person who can fall asleep to the sound of branches creaking in the dark, or who doesn't lie awake wondering what stares back from beyond the tree line. Maybe peace belongs to the ones who've never known how loud silence can be. For me, peace is a myth. Like the old hearthside tales the elders whisper to keep the fire going long after it's gone dim. Stories of beasts with eyes that glow like coals and claws sharp enough to slice through dreams. They said the monsters lived in the forest, that they hunted those who strayed too far, too long. Tales meant to frighten children into staying close to home. But children grow up, and we stop believing. We have to. We learn to tuck those fears away in little mental boxes, seal them with grown-up logic, and pretend we've thrown away the key. Most people never open those boxes again. But I never had the luxury of forgetting. The town of Silver Hollow sits quiet, nestled between towering evergreens and mountains so tall they seem to carry the sky. Our homes, made from stone and thick beams of pine, huddle together like old friends trying to keep warm. The air is always cool, and the scent of moss and smoke clings to your clothes like memory. At night, oil lamps flicker through drawn curtains, casting long, swaying shadows across the walls. There's a kind of stillness here, not the comforting kind, but the sort that feels like everything is holding its breath. Listening. Waiting. Some say the land is peaceful because it's blessed. Others say it's because the land remembers. And remembering, they believe, is a kind of protection. As if the ground itself is watching, judging. The forest doesn't forget. And neither do I. I was thirteen when the fire took everything, our house, our parents, the version of ourselves that believed the world made sense. It was a night etched into the very marrow of me. The air choked with smoke, the crackle of flames devouring timber, the roar that drowned out screams. But it wasn't just fire I saw that night. Through the smoke, in the space between one heartbeat and the next, I saw something move. Something that didn't belong. They said it was an accident. A lantern left too close to dry wood, a strong breeze through an open window. But I remember eyes in the dark. I remember a shape, too tall, too lean, too wrong, and I've kept that memory sealed away ever since. Like a scar you stop picking at, but that never really fades. Fifteen years have passed. Fifteen long winters, each one colder than the last. I've built a life here in the ruins of the old one. A life held together by routine, vigilance, and love. I carry the weight of that night like armor, hidden beneath every word I speak, every choice I make. It's in the way I bolt every door at sundown, the way I sleep with a blade beneath my mattress, the way I always, always, check under my daughter's bed before she closes her eyes. Just in case. Emma is five. Bright, curious, with curls the color of chestnuts and a laugh that could shatter stone. She's my light in the dark, the reason I get up every morning. Caleb, my younger brother, is nineteen now. I raised him after the fire, mothered him in ways a child shouldn't have to. He grew tall and broad-shouldered almost overnight, the softness of boyhood giving way to something more restless. He's all sharp edges now, too stubborn for his own good, too wild to stay tethered. And lately, he's been drifting. He spends too much time in the woods. I've begged him not to. Warned him of what might be out there. But something pulls at him, a whisper in the trees he won't speak of, a hunger in his eyes I don't understand. This morning, I woke to find his bed empty again. The blanket folded at the foot like he thought that would make it better, like it would ease the dread curling through my stomach. The pillow still held the indent of his head, a hollow reminder of his absence. The night before, we'd argued again. His voice rising, mine steady but firm. The same old battle lines drawn between us. "You can't keep living in fear, Leah," he'd said, pacing our small kitchen like a caged animal. "Not everyone sees ghosts in every shadow." "It's not about fear," I'd replied, though we both knew it was a lie. "It's about being sensible. About respecting boundaries that have kept this town safe for generations." He'd laughed then, bitter and sharp. "Safe? Is that what you call this? Hiding behind walls, jumping at every noise? That's not living, Leah. That's just waiting to die." I'd winced at his words, but kept my face neutral. He was young, reckless with the invincibility that comes with youth. He hadn't seen what I had. Hadn't felt the weight of responsibility pressing down, constant and unyielding. I was in the barn feeding the goats when I noticed the boot tracks, fresh prints in the damp earth, cutting a straight path toward the forest. My hands trembled around the feed pail, the clang of oats against metal too loud in the quiet. The animals stirred but made no protest. They've learned to tolerate my moods. "Caleb…" I whispered, eyes on the treeline. "What are you chasing?" The tracks were deep, purposeful. Not the meandering path of someone merely exploring, but the determined stride of a person with a destination in mind. I followed them to the edge of our property, where the neat rows of our garden surrendered to the wild tangle of underbrush. There, at the boundary, they seemed to hesitate, one print half-formed, as if he'd paused, reconsidered. But then they continued, resolute, into the waiting darkness beneath the trees. The sky was still tinted with the bruises of dawn, clouds like ash hanging low over the hills. Emma slept inside, cocooned in my old wolf-stitched blanket. She loves wolves. Draws them constantly with charcoal stubs on scraps of parchment, always howling, always watching. She says they visit her in dreams. Says they speak to her in a voice made of wind. It unnerves me. Sometimes I catch her standing at her bedroom window, little fingers pressed against the glass, staring out into the night with an intensity that doesn't belong on a child's face. When I ask what she's looking for, she always gives the same answer: "The golden eyes, Mama. They're watching over us." I tell myself it's just childish imagination, the product of too many bedtime stories. But deep down, I wonder if she sees something I can't. If maybe, in her innocence, she recognizes truths I've forced myself to forget. By midmorning, I was in town for the market. The square buzzed with the low hum of trade, rustling fabric, snorting donkeys, the sharp tang of salted meat and wild herbs. I bartered a pouch of dried lavender and willow bark tincture for oats and a wedge of goat cheese. The baker's boy, a sweet lad with freckles and flour in his hair, slipped me a half-loaf with a grin. "It's for Emma," he mumbled, almost bashfully. "She always smiles at me." I managed a smile in return. The healer in me is good at pretending. I've spent years perfecting the art of appearing untroubled of wearing normalcy like a well-fitted cloak, never letting anyone glimpse the constant vigilance beneath. The townspeople respect me as a healer, but they keep their distance too. There's something about tragedy that makes others uncomfortable, as if misfortune might be contagious. As if by standing too close, they might catch the attention of whatever cruel fate marked me. I wandered through the market stalls, half-listening to the gossip flowing around me like water. Mrs. Tanner's eldest was getting married come spring. Old Widow Jenkins had seen a fox with a white tail, a sure sign of an early winter. Mayor Collins was planning to expand the mill, bringing more work to our isolated community. Normal concerns, safe concerns. Nothing about strange lights in the forest, or livestock going missing, or the unnatural silence that had fallen over the woods these past few weeks. The rest of the morning passed in a blur of small tasks. I checked on Old Man Diggs, who insisted, yet again, that he was on death's door. I left him with a strong infusion of bitterroot. "If I'm dying," he rasped, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength, his rheumy eyes suddenly clear and piercing, "at least I'll go out with a clean stomach." "If it is the end," I replied, gently extracting myself from his grip and adjusting his shawl, "you'll leave this world fresher than you came in." He laughed, then coughed himself breathless. I've been treating Diggs for nearly a decade now, watching his complaints shift with the seasons like migratory birds. In summer, it's his joints that plague him. In autumn, his chest. Winter brings complaints of chills that no fire can warm, and spring stirs up memories that make his heart ache. I suspect loneliness is his true ailment, one no herb or tincture can cure. Routine keeps me grounded. Healing others helps me pretend I'm whole. But by the time I returned home, the sun was already inching westward and the house was still empty. No sign of Caleb's return, no muddy boots by the door, no warmth from the hearth he usually tends. Just the hollow quiet of absence stretching through the rooms like a physical presence. I heard Emma before I saw her, her laughter trailing like music in the wind. She was behind the cottage, chasing butterflies through the grass, her red shawl flying behind her like a banner. The sight of her momentarily loosened the knot of worry in my chest, my wild, fearless child, so unlike me in her easy joy. "Mama!" she called, spinning in the sunlight. "Come see!" I stepped out, trying to shake off the unease that had shadowed me all day. Her excitement was infectious, her small face alight with discovery. "Catch one for me and I'll name it after your uncle." She grinned, revealing the gap where her front tooth had fallen out just last week. "Even the fat ones?" "Especially the fat ones." We laughed. It felt like breathing for the first time all day. Like maybe, just maybe, I could hold on to that silver of normal, could wrap it around us like a protective charm. Then she stopped. Mid-spin, mid-laugh, her body going suddenly still in that unnatural way children have, like puppets whose strings have been cut. "There's a man in the woods," she said, voice suddenly small. Every hair on my arms stood on end. I followed her gaze, eyes scanning the shadows just beyond the trees. Nothing. Only stillness. "He had gold eyes," she whispered, and my heart stuttered in my chest. "Like fire. He was watching me. Smiling." I knelt beside her, keeping my voice calm despite the terror clawing at my throat. "Emma. Are you sure?" She nodded solemnly. "He didn't look mean. Just… lost." I scooped her up, holding her close as I backed toward the house, never taking my eyes from the forest edge. My mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. A stranger? A traveler? Or something else entirely, something that shouldn't exist outside of fireside tales and nightmares? I didn't respond. My eyes didn't leave the forest. That night, I kept the lantern lit. The shutters closed. The windows locked. Still no Caleb. The hours crawled by like wounded things. I baked bread we didn't need, swept floors already clean, darned socks with such tight stitches they might never tear again. Anything to keep my hands busy, to quiet the screaming thoughts in my head. Where was Caleb? Had he encountered whatever Emma had seen? Was he safe, or lost, or… I couldn't finish the thought. Emma slept fitfully, muttering in dreams I couldn't make sense of. I sat on the edge of her bed and listened. Once, she said something that chilled me. "He's not bad… just lonely." Her small face creased with an emotion too complex for her years – not fear, but something like pity. As if she understood something about the world that I, for all my vigilance, had missed entirely. The wind scraped the shutters like nails on wood. After midnight, I stepped outside, shawl wrapped tight around me. The moon was sickle-thin, clouds drifting like smoke across its face. The air carried the scent of pine… and something else. Something darker. A coppery tang that made my throat tighten. I stood still. Listening. Then I heard it. A howl, low and long. So ancient it seemed to rise from the bones of the earth itself. It wasn't a wolf. Not one I'd ever heard. It wasn't anything I'd ever heard. My blood turned to ice. My hands gripped the porch rail until my knuckles ached. In my mind, that old box, the one I'd sealed all those years ago, began to crack. The stories weren't just stories. They were warnings. And they had been waiting. I didn't sleep after that. I sat by the window until dawn, tea forgotten in my hands. The lamp sputtered, casting shadows across the walls. Shadows that flickered too much. Moved too slow. I checked on Emma three times, tucking her in tighter, pressing a kiss to her brow each time. She whispered in sleep. "He doesn't want to hurt anyone." I didn't know if she was dreaming of wolves or of something older. Still no sign of Caleb. My worry pulsed like a heartbeat in my throat. He'd wandered before, but never like this. Not overnight. Not without words. I sat by the hearth, feeding logs to the flames, ignoring the ache in my chest. The forest was no longer whispering. It was listening. That night, as I stared into the firelight, a deep, distant howl echoed from the forest, the first in nearly a hundred years…