The Wolf Beneath

Chapter 2 Something in the Trees

Leah Carter's Point of View

When I finally stepped back into the house, my hands were still trembling. The howl clung to my skin like frostbite, lingering long after the sound had vanished into the suffocating darkness beyond our walls. Each finger felt numb, clumsy as I fumbled with the iron latch, sliding it home with a metallic scrape that seemed to echo through the cottage like a death knell.

Emma was asleep, curled beneath her wolf-stitched blanket, her small chest rising and falling with a calm that felt cruel in contrast to the storm swelling in my chest. The innocence of her slumber struck me like a physical blow, how could she rest so peacefully when something out there had screamed with such primal rage? Her tiny fingers clutched at the blanket's edge, and I noticed, with a mother's keen eye, that her knuckles were white with tension even in sleep.

I watched the flames in the hearth dance and spit, casting writhing shadows that moved like restless spirits against the weathered walls. The fire seemed smaller now, more fragile, as though the darkness pressed against our windows with intentional malice. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching us, from the trees, from the dark, from the silence itself that had settled over Silver Hollow like a burial shroud.

The cottage creaked and settled around us, each sound making my heart skip. The wind outside had died to an unnatural stillness, and in that void, every whisper of sound became magnified: the soft hiss of Emma's breathing, the pop and crackle of burning wood, the distant drip of condensation from the eaves. But beneath it all, I strained to hear something else, footsteps, breathing, the rustle of something large moving through the underbrush.

I barely slept. When I drifted off in the chair by Emma's bedside, my dreams were filled with golden eyes and the sound of tearing cloth. I jolted awake repeatedly, my heart hammering against my ribs, only to find the cottage empty save for my daughter's sleeping form and the dying embers in the grate.

When morning came, gray and reluctant through the frost-etched windows, I made strong tea with shaking hands and forced down a slice of bread that tasted like sawdust. All the while, I kept one ear tilted toward the woods beyond our cottage, listening for any sign of Caleb's return. The tea scalded my tongue, but I welcomed the sharp pain, it reminded me that I was still alive, still here to protect Emma.

I paced the length of the cottage so many times that even the floorboards started groaning in protest, their familiar complaints now sounding like warnings. The cottage suddenly felt impossibly small, a fragile shell of timber and stone that could be torn apart by whatever had made that terrible sound. Still no Caleb. No word. No note. His absence had transformed from worry into a cold, gnawing dread that settled in my stomach like a stone.

By midday, the town began to stir. But not in the usual, sleepy Silver Hollow way. Something was off, I could feel it in the way the air itself seemed to vibrate with tension. It started with the widow, Mama Elka, who lived two cottages down. She came hobbling up the path with unusual urgency, her walking stick thudding against the stone in a rhythm that spoke of fear barely contained. I saw her from the window before she knocked, her bent figure moving faster than I'd seen in months.

Her weathered face was pale as parchment when I opened the door, deep lines etched with worry that seemed to have deepened overnight. She didn't wait for an invitation, pushing past me into the cottage with a strength that belied her frail appearance.

"Leah," she said the moment I opened the door, her voice sharp with urgency. Her eyes, pale as rain but bright with fear, looked wide and alert in a way that made my skin crawl. "You heard it last night, didn't you?"

I nodded slowly, my throat tight. "What was it, Mama Elka?" She clutched her shawl tighter, her gnarled fingers working the wool like prayer beads. "Sounded like the gods themselves were mourning," she whispered, casting a nervous glance toward the windows. "It came from deep, beyond the old pine line. That's where the wolves used to roam, back when… back before the massacre."

My throat tightened. The m******e, everyone in Silver Hollow knew the stories, whispered around winter fires and in the dark corners of the tavern. Twenty years ago, a pack of wolves had descended from the mountains, but these weren't ordinary beasts. They'd killed with intelligence, with purpose, targeting specific families, specific bloodlines. The survivors spoke of golden eyes and impossible size, of creatures that walked upright when they thought no one was watching.

"You think it was a wolf?" I asked, though the word felt inadequate for what I'd heard. "I think," she said, lowering her voice until it was barely audible, "something old just woke up. Something that's been sleeping in those mountains, waiting." Her eyes fixed on mine with disturbing intensity. "And I think it's hungry."

She left before I could say anything else, her walking stick tapping a frantic rhythm as she hurried back down the path. I stepped outside, squinting up at the sky. The sun was pale behind a wall of drifting clouds that seemed too thick, too dark for the season. A strange scent carried in the wind, wet bark, iron, and something else. Something that reminded me of the slaughterhouse in the next town over.

The goats were silent, clustered at the edge of the fence like they knew better than to wander. Their usual bleating and movement had been replaced by a tense stillness, their eyes constantly darting toward the tree line. Even Bessie, our most placid doe, stood rigid with fear, her ears pricked forward as though listening for danger.

By late afternoon, word had spread through Silver Hollow like wildfire. Old Thom, who kept a small flock near the riverbank, had found one of his prize goats torn open at the water's edge. His face was ashen when he stumbled into the town square, babbling about c*****e unlike anything he'd ever seen.

"Mangled beyond recognition," he kept repeating, his hands shaking as he accepted a cup of ale from concerned neighbors. "Throat shredded like parchment, eyes gone. Not stolen. Not eaten. Just… killed." His voice broke on the last word. "Like something did it for pure pleasure."

The worst part? No tracks. No blood trail leading to or from the scene. Nothing but claw marks on the nearby trees that rose too high to be from any ordinary beast, gouges that started at shoulder height and extended upward another six feet, carved deep into the bark as though whatever made them possessed inhuman strength, and still, no Caleb. I was back in the barn, mechanically going through the motions of evening chores while my mind raced with increasingly dark possibilities, when I heard the crunch of tiny feet on dried grass. My heart leaped into my throat, in my state of nerves, even Emma's approach startled me.

"Mama?" I turned. Emma stood there, her curls a tangled halo around her face, but her eyes held a strange depth that seemed far too old for her five years. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her tunic, a nervous habit that had intensified over the past few days.

"I had another dream," she whispered, and the words hit me like ice water. My heart dropped. Emma's dreams had always been vivid, sometimes unsettlingly so, but lately they'd taken on a prophetic quality that frightened me. "Tell me," I said, kneeling before her and taking her small hands in mine. They were cold as winter stones.

Her eyes were far away, as though she were remembering something from another lifetime rather than a dream from the previous night. "The man with the golden eyes was standing in the trees again… but this time, he wasn't alone."

A chill ran down my spine like ice water. "What do you mean, not alone?" She nodded gravely, her expression far too serious for a child. "There were others. I couldn't see their faces, they kept to the shadows, but I heard them. They were whispering. Angry whispers, like when you're mad but trying not to wake me."

My hands tightened on hers. "What were they saying?" Her voice lowered to a near-whimper that made the hair on my arms stand on end. "They said the blood had returned. That it's time." She paused, her small face creased with confusion and fear. "They kept saying a name, over and over. They said 'Carter.' They said our name, Mama."

The world seemed to tilt around me. "What blood, Emma? What did they mean?" She shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. "I don't know. But they were looking at our house. And the man with golden eyes… he smiled. It wasn't a nice smile."

I pulled her close, my mind racing. She smelled like bread and charcoal from helping me bake earlier, but beneath it was something else, something wild and earthy that reminded me of the forest floor. It could've been my imagination. It had to be.

"Stay inside today," I told her, trying to keep my voice steady. "Don't go near the trees. Don't even look toward them if you can help it."

She didn't argue, which frightened me more than any protest would have. Emma was naturally curious, always eager to explore. Her immediate compliance told me that her dreams had shaken her as much as they'd terrified me.

That evening, I took the hunting knife from above the hearth, Caleb's backup blade, sharp as a razor and heavy in my hand. I strapped it beneath my coat, the leather sheath cold against my ribs. Caleb's primary knife was missing, and he never left the house without it. Never.

I waited until Emma was asleep, her breathing finally deep and even, before I slipped into the woods. The path he usually took was still there, half-covered in fallen needles and soft moss that muffled my footsteps. The familiar route that had once seemed welcoming now felt like a passage into the underworld. My boots sank with each step, and I had to resist the urge to turn back with every pace.

The deeper I went, the quieter it became. Birds fell silent as I passed, their usual evening chatter replaced by an oppressive hush. Even the wind seemed to stop breathing, leaving the forest suspended in unnatural stillness. The trees pressed close on either side, their branches forming a canopy so thick that twilight became full darkness within a dozen steps of the path, then I saw it.

About twenty paces in, half-buried in dirt and pine leaves as though hastily concealed, was Caleb's hunting blade. My heart seized in my chest as I recognized the worn leather grip, the small notch near the guard where he'd cut himself years ago while skinning a deer. But something was wrong, terribly, horribly wrong.

The handle was split down its length, the wood cracked and splintered as though gripped by something with impossible strength. The blade itself was broken clean through at the midpoint, leaving only a jagged stub of steel still attached to the ruined hilt. And the edge, dear gods, the edge was stained dark red with blood that had dried to the color of rust.

I fell to my knees, grabbing the broken weapon with trembling fingers. The blood was dry but thick enough to be recent, perhaps a day old, maybe two. My mind reeled as I tried to imagine what force could snap a blade of that quality, what creature could exert enough pressure to splinter seasoned oak.

I looked around frantically, scanning the ground for signs, footprints, drag marks, scraps of clothing, anything that might tell me what had happened to my husband. But the forest offered no clues, no answers to my desperate questions. Only silence that seemed to mock my fear.

Then I heard it. A crunch behind me, deliberate and heavy. The sound of something large stepping on a fallen branch.

I spun around, the broken knife clutched in my hand like a talisman, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Nothing. Not a squirrel, not a swaying branch, not even the whisper of wind through leaves. Just the forest, holding its breath again, watching me with the patience of a predator.

But I could feel eyes on me. The weight of a gaze so intense it made my skin crawl, made every instinct scream at me to run. Something was there, just beyond the reach of my vision, studying me with the calculating interest of a hunter sizing up its prey.

I backed away slowly, my eyes sweeping the shadows between the trees, the broken blade clenched in one fist until my knuckles ached. The darkness seemed to shift and flow around me, creating shapes that might have been trees or might have been something far worse.

That's when I saw them. High up on a massive pine trunk, carved deep into the bark: four parallel lines, each one longer than my hand and gouged so deeply that sap still wept from the wounds. Claw marks. But no wolf had ever grown large enough to reach that height, and no bear had claws that sharp, that precise.

Something had been here. Something that walked upright, something with the strength to snap steel and the reach of a giant. And judging by the fresh sap, it has been here recently. Perhaps it was still here, watching me from the shadows, waiting for me to venture deeper into its domain.

I ran, not like a fool, not blindly crashing through the underbrush, but with the desperate efficiency of prey that knows it's been marked for death. Fast enough to taste blood in my mouth by the time I reached the edge of the woods, my lungs burning with each gasping breath, my legs trembling with exhaustion and terror.

I slammed the cottage door shut behind me, the solid wood feeling pitifully thin against whatever might follow. I threw both bolts, locking the top and bottom latches, then dragged the heavy oak table against the door for good measure. My hands shook so violently I could barely manipulate the metal.

Then the reality of what I'd found hit me, and I threw up right there on the floor, my body rejecting the horror my mind was trying to process. Caleb's broken knife. The blood. The claw marks that spoke of something monstrous stalking through our woods.

After I cleaned up the mess, I scrubbed the blade clean of blood and hid it beneath the loose floorboards near the fireplace. I couldn't bear to look at it anymore, couldn't stand the way the firelight gleamed off the jagged break that had once been sharp steel.

Emma was still asleep, but her rest was troubled now. Her brow was furrowed with distress, her small legs tangled in the blanket as though she were running in her dreams. She mumbled something too low for me to catch, then spoke more clearly: "Don't let him in…" The words were barely audible, but they struck me like a physical blow.

I sat beside her for hours, brushing her hair back from her fevered brow, whispering half-remembered lullabies that my own mother had sung to me. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, and the tea I poured went cold and untouched on the table. Every small sound made me jump, the settling of timbers, the hiss of wind through the chimney, the distant call of a night bird.

When the fire burned low, I tossed the broken handle of Caleb's knife into the flames, watching it catch and flare. I couldn't bear to look at it anymore, couldn't stand the reminder of whatever had happened to him in those dark woods. The wood crackled and popped as it burned, releasing the scent of oil and leather and something else, something wild and musky that made my stomach turn.

But long after the cottage fell quiet and the moon began its climb over the mountains, I sat by the window and watched the tree line. Waiting, listening, hoping against hope that I would see Caleb's familiar figure emerge from the darkness, that this would all prove to be some terrible misunderstanding.

The moon was nearly full, casting everything in stark silver light that created deep pools of shadow beneath the trees. Every movement of branches in the wind looked like approaching figures. Every play of light and darkness seemed to hide watching eyes.

Just before dawn, when exhaustion had nearly claimed me despite my fear, I saw something move between the pines. Not a person stumbling home after a night of hunting. Not a deer picking its way carefully through the underbrush. Something bigger, something that moved with predatory grace and deliberate purpose.

It didn't run or skulk through the shadows. It walked slowly, deliberately, with the confidence of an apex predator in its own territory. And as the first pale light of dawn touched the sky, painting the world in shades of gray and gold, the thing turned its head toward our cottage.

Its eyes burned gold in the growing light, inhuman and intelligent and filled with a hunger that made my blood freeze in my veins. And wrapped around its massive shoulders, torn and stained with dark patches that might have been blood, it was wearing Caleb's cloak.