Howl at the Door
632 Words
Chapter 2: Howl at the Door
The days blurred into a rhythm of coffee pots, greasy plates, and aching feet.
Elara learned the regulars by their orders:
Old Mr. Harlan liked his eggs over-easy and his gossip hot;
The loggers wanted bottomless refills and silence before their shifts.
She kept her head down, her smiles small, and her bruises hidden under long sleeves even as they yellowed.
But she couldn’t avoid Thorne Blackwood.
He came in every morning at seven sharp, always the same stool at the end of the counter, always coffee black, always a short stack of pancakes he barely touched.
He never said much, just watched the room with those storm-gray eyes, nodding thanks when she refilled his mug.
Yet every time she leaned close, she caught the faint scent of pine and something wild clinging to him—like the forest itself had marked him.
On the fifth morning, the diner was nearly empty.
A late-season snow had started falling overnight, thick flakes drifting past the windows like ash.
Betty had gone to the back to tally receipts, leaving Elara alone when Thorne walked in, snowflakes melting in his dark hair.
"You're still here," he said. Not a question.
"For now." She poured his coffee without asking. "Snow’s pretty. Makes the mountains feel... safer."
He huffed a quiet laugh that held no humor. "Mountains aren't safe, Elara. Pretty doesn't mean kind."
The way he said her name—low, careful—made her stomach twist. She hadn’t told him her name. Betty must have mentioned it.
"You know this town," she said, wiping the already-clean counter just to have something to do with her hands. "Any advice for a girl trying to disappear?"
His gaze sharpened. "Disappear from what?"
She froze. Too much. Too soon.
"Bad choices," she muttered, turning away.
But Thorne’s hand shot out—not grabbing, just resting on the counter between them, blocking her retreat. His palm was rough, scarred, warm even through the chill he’d brought in with him.
"Whatever you're running from," he said quietly, "it won't stop at the town line. Things follow scent. Things follow blood."
Her heart hammered. "Are you threatening me?"
"No." He withdrew his hand as if she’d burned him. "Warning you."
The bell above the door jingled.
Three men in heavy work coats stomped in, shaking off snow. They nodded at Thorne—deferential, almost—and took a booth in the back.
Their eyes lingered on Elara a beat too long.
Thorne’s jaw tightened. He tossed a few bills on the counter and stood.
"Stay inside after dark," he said, voice barely above a growl. "Lock your doors.".
He left without another word, the door swinging shut behind him.
Through the frosted window, Elara watched him stride across the lot toward a battered black pickup.
The three men in the booth watched him too, then turned their gazes to her.
That night, alone in the tiny room above the diner, Elara couldn’t sleep.
The wind howled around the eaves like something alive. And beneath it—closer, insistent—she heard wolves.
Not one or two, but many, their voices rising in a chorus that vibrated in her bones.
She pulled the thin curtain aside. Snow fell in heavy curtains, blotting out the streetlights.
But in the empty lot behind the diner, shadows moved—large, low shapes circling just beyond the glow.
One pair of eyes gleamed gold, fixed on her window.
Elara stumbled back, heart in her throat. When she looked again, the lot was empty.
Only paw prints marred the fresh snow—too large for any dog, leading straight to the tree line... and straight to her door.
Downstairs, something scratched softly at the back entrance.
Once then twice.
Then silence.
- Writer
