Chapter 7:The Howl Draws Near
1553 Words
The faint howl of a dog echoed through the courtyard, louder now, and closer than ever before. It sent a chill down Dorian’s spine, his heartbeat quickening. He glanced around at the other patients, but no one seemed to notice the sound—or they were pretending not to. Even the security guards, masked in their grotesque dog faces, remained still, their empty gazes sweeping over the courtyard without reacting to the ominous noise.
“When you hear the dogs howl, it’s already too late.”
The warning echoed in his mind, filling him with dread. He knew he didn’t have much time. Whatever the howling signified, it was coming for him. And it wouldn’t be long now.
Dorian clenched his fists and began walking briskly toward the hospital entrance, his mind racing. He had to figure out what was in the emergency box the shopkeeper had given him. There was no way he could open it out in the open, not with the security guards watching, and not with the tension in the air growing thicker by the second.
But he couldn’t ignore the howl any longer. He needed to find a safe place—somewhere he could gather his thoughts and plan his next move.
Inside the hospital, the atmosphere was just as oppressive as ever. The halls were dimly lit, the flickering lights casting long shadows along the walls. The sound of distant footsteps echoed through the corridors, but Dorian couldn’t tell if they belonged to patients, doctors, or something else entirely.
He moved quickly, his eyes scanning for an empty room, a closet—anywhere he could hide and inspect the box in peace. His breathing was shallow, every instinct telling him that something was closing in on him.
Finally, he found it—a storage room at the end of the hallway, the door slightly ajar. Dorian slipped inside, shutting the door softly behind him. The room was small, cluttered with medical supplies and cleaning equipment. It was dark, but safe enough for now.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the emergency box. His fingers hesitated for a moment as he held it in his hands. Was this a trap? Another twisted game from the Haunting Dimension? Or was it something that could actually help him?
With a deep breath, Dorian pried open the lid.
Inside was a small syringe filled with a pale blue liquid, along with a single sheet of paper folded neatly beneath it. His hands shook slightly as he unfolded the note, his eyes scanning the hurried, scrawled handwriting.
“In case of transformation—inject immediately.”
Dorian’s breath caught in his throat. Transformation? The warning filled him with sudden dread. Could this be related to the howling? Was the dimension preparing to turn him into one of its monstrous inhabitants, like the stag-headed creatures or the dog-masked guards?
The memory of his earlier simulation flashed in his mind—the one where he had transformed into a beast, black fur sprouting from his skin, his human mind lost to the primal instincts of the monster he had become. He had died in that simulation, a slow and agonizing process, as he lost all sense of self. Was that what the Haunting Dimension had planned for him?
Dorian’s grip tightened around the syringe. This could be his lifeline, his last hope. But it was also a grim reminder of what awaited him if he failed to escape.
Back in Drakenia, the team of experts watched the feed intently, their eyes locked on the small syringe in Dorian’s hands.
“That syringe... it must be an antidote,” one of the analysts whispered.
“Antidote for what?” another asked, frowning. “We haven’t seen any symptoms of transformation yet.”
The leader of the team spoke up, his voice steady but laced with concern. “This dimension is built to erode the mind. The transformations might not be physical—at least, not at first. It could be the slow loss of humanity, the subtle shift toward becoming one of the monsters.”
“But how will he know when to use it?”
“He won’t,” the leader replied grimly. “He’ll have to guess. And if he guesses wrong...”
The rest of the sentence went unsaid, but everyone in the room understood. If Dorian used the syringe too soon—or too late—it would be over.
Dorian carefully placed the syringe and note back in the emergency box, stowing it in his pocket once again. He had the antidote, but the question now was when to use it. Would the howling signal the transformation? Or was it another trap designed to push him into making a fatal mistake?
He needed more information, more clues about what was happening to him and why the howling was growing louder with every passing hour.
Just as he was about to leave the storage room, he heard something—scratching. Faint at first, like nails scraping against wood, but it quickly grew louder, more frantic.
His heart raced as he turned toward the door, his hand instinctively reaching for the handle, ready to bolt. But the scratching wasn’t coming from outside.
It was coming from inside the room.
Dorian’s breath hitched as he scanned the room, his eyes darting across the cluttered shelves and stacks of boxes. His ears strained to locate the sound, the frantic scratching growing more desperate by the second.
Suddenly, his eyes landed on a small vent near the floor, its metal grate shaking violently as if something was trapped inside.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Dorian backed away slowly, his pulse thundering in his ears. Whatever was inside the vent—it wanted out.
And then, just as quickly as it started, the scratching stopped.
A long, tense silence filled the room. Dorian held his breath, waiting for something—anything—to happen.
The silence was broken by a low, guttural growl.
The howl. It was here. It had found him.
Without thinking, Dorian turned and bolted for the door, flinging it open and sprinting down the hallway. His mind was racing, panic flooding his senses as the growl grew louder, echoing behind him, chasing him.
He didn’t dare look back.
The experts in Drakenia watched in horror as Dorian’s flight was broadcast live on their screens. The sound of the growling, the frantic pace of his footsteps—it was clear that something had found him.
“Run, Dorian,” one of the analysts whispered under their breath, though he knew the adventurer couldn’t hear him.
The team leader’s eyes narrowed as he watched the scene unfold. “This is it,” he said, his voice tight. “This is the moment.”
Dorian ran blindly through the maze of hallways, his lungs burning as he pushed himself to keep moving. He could still hear the growling behind him, closing in fast. He had no idea where he was going—his only thought was to stay ahead of whatever was chasing him.
He rounded a corner, nearly slipping on the polished floor, and skidded to a stop in front of a heavy iron door. Without thinking, he yanked it open and slammed it shut behind him, throwing the bolt into place.
The growling stopped.
Dorian stood there, panting, his hands pressed against the cold metal door as if that would keep whatever it was from getting through. His chest heaved as he struggled to catch his breath, his body trembling with fear and exhaustion.
He glanced around the room. It was dark, lit only by a faint light coming from the far corner. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw that it wasn’t an ordinary room—it looked more like a storage bunker, with walls lined with strange artifacts and items that didn’t belong in a hospital.
And then he saw it.
At the center of the room stood a large stone statue of a dog, its eyes gleaming in the faint light. It was ancient, its surface cracked and worn with age, but there was something unnerving about it. Its mouth was open, frozen in a silent howl.
Dorian’s blood ran cold.
The howling wasn’t just a warning—it was a call. A summons.
And now, he had nowhere left to run.
The experts in Drakenia watched in silence as Dorian stood before the statue, the tension palpable in the room. No one spoke, but everyone knew what was coming next.
Dorian stared at the statue, his mind racing. He had to think, had to find a way out of this. The syringe in his pocket felt heavy, like a reminder of what he might have to do. But the howling—the transformation—was it too late?
His hand hovered over the box in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of the syringe.
The dog statue seemed to watch him, its stone eyes unblinking.
What do I do?
The decision loomed over him, a terrible choice with no clear answer.
The growling resumed, louder now, coming from the other side of the door.
Dorian took a deep breath, his hand trembling.
And then, the door creaked.
- Writer
