The rain hammered Ashwood mercilessly, transforming the Pacific Northwest city into a fog-shrouded labyrinth of secrets and shadows. Thick, impenetrable mist clung to every surface like a living veil; the sky remained a relentless, washed-out gray, broken only by the occasional low rumble of distant thunder that seemed to echo the unease settling deep in Ivy's bones.
Tucked down a narrow, cobblestone side street, the Mist Shadow café stood as a small, defiant beacon beneath the looming silhouettes of Gothic buildings that had stood for over a century. Inside, the warm yellow glow of vintage lamps fought back the chill, blending with the rich, almost bitter aroma of aged coffee beans and the crisp, earthy scent of wet pine needles carried in on every gust through the half-open door. Rain streaked the large windows in relentless rivulets, distorting the outside world into an abstract watercolor: hurried pedestrians hunched under black umbrellas, streetlights flickering like lost ghosts through the fog, and the occasional sharp blare of a car horn slicing through the steady roar of water on pavement.
Evelyn "Ivy" Harper had claimed her usual corner booth, curling into it like a wounded animal seeking shelter. Stacks of yellowed newspapers, dog-eared books, and printed articles formed a makeshift fortress around her—her private refuge from the city's hidden darkness and the constant, gnawing fear that never quite left her. At twenty-nine, she still looked younger than her years, perhaps because of the fierce, unyielding sharpness in her green eyes—always watchful, always searching. Her brown hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail that had long since escaped its tie, strands clinging damply to her neck from the rain. No makeup touched her face; only faint shadows of exhaustion bruised the skin beneath her eyes. She wore a faded denim jacket over a plain black T-shirt, dark jeans, and well-worn hiking boots caked with old mud—clothes that spoke of a life spent chasing leads rather than comfort.
As a crime reporter for the Ashwood Gazette, Ivy had built her career on exposing the truths that official reports tried to bury. She thrived in the gray areas, the places where people preferred not to look. Tonight, though, the weight felt heavier than usual.
The glow from her laptop screen bathed her pale face in cold blue light, turning her into a spectral figure amid the warm café ambiance. The display was cluttered with clippings, screenshots, and grainy photos labeled "Beast Attacks." Over the past few months, three savage murders had terrorized Ashwood's outskirts. Six weeks ago, a lone lumberjack had been found torn apart along a forest trail, his insides scattered like autumn leaves; police dismissed it as a bear. Two weeks later, a college student vanished on her walk home—her body surfaced by the river, throat slashed, eyes frozen wide in a final, silent plea for help. Just three days ago, a middle-aged businessman's car was discovered abandoned on a rural road, door pried open with what looked like claw marks; his remains were barely recognizable. Again, the official line: wildlife incident.
But Ivy knew better. The wounds were too precise, too ritualistic. They echoed—perfectly—the nightmare that had shattered her life eighteen years earlier.
Her mind slipped back to that stormy night, a week after her sixteenth birthday. She and her mother had lived in a small, cozy cottage on the very edge of Ashwood, surrounded by whispering hemlocks and the constant patter of rain on the roof. Her mother had been gentle, warm, always tending jasmine vines on the windowsill that filled their home with soft fragrance and a sense of safety. That night the rain had pounded with vicious fury, wind rattling the windows like fists demanding entry. Ivy was bent over homework in her bedroom when the scream tore through the house—raw, terrified, final.
She bolted out, heart in her throat, only to freeze in the doorway. Her mother lay sprawled in a spreading pool of blood on the living room floor. Above her loomed a massive shadow—human in silhouette, yet cloaked in dark, matted fur, claws like polished razors glinting in the lamplight. Its eyes burned gold in the darkness, twin lanterns of pure fury and hunger. Ivy screamed and dove under her bed, curling into a tight, trembling ball, praying the monster wouldn't smell her fear. The creature roared as it tore into her mother; warm blood splashed across the sheets and seeped toward Ivy's hiding place, pooling against her fingertips. The coppery tang mixed horribly with her mother's jasmine perfume. Time stretched into eternity. Eventually, the beast left, vanishing into the storm.
Police arrived, investigated, and closed the case: animal intrusion. But Ivy had seen those eyes. She knew. It was no animal. It was a werewolf.
For eighteen long years, that single word had lodged like a splinter in her heart—werewolf. She had collected every legend, every eyewitness account, every blurry photo and grainy video she could find. She had pored over folklore, police archives, anonymous forums. Proof always slipped away, leaving her with obsession instead of closure. Friends drifted away, calling her fixated. Her editor labeled her reckless. She didn't care. The truth mattered more than safety. More than sanity.
Now these new killings carried the exact same scent—literal and figurative. Photos of the wounds (sourced through back channels she'd rather not explain), anonymous tips, grainy surveillance stills of a tall figure moving through the trees at night—all piled on her screen like evidence in a trial she was determined to win. Her fingers flew across the keyboard: "Wound patterns match—throat torn, limbs severed with surgical precision, deliberate targeting. Police covering this up?" Her pulse thundered in her ears; adrenaline flooded her veins like fire. This wasn't just a story anymore. This was personal. This was justice for the gentle woman who had once tucked her in at night and promised the monsters weren't real.
A soft ping broke her focus. New email. No sender name. No subject—just "Untitled." Ivy frowned, hesitated for half a heartbeat, then clicked. Attached was a small .mp4 file.
She downloaded it, half-expecting a virus or spam, but professional instinct won out. As the video buffered, she took a sip of her now-lukewarm coffee; the bitterness spread across her tongue like the weight pressing on her chest.
The footage was shaky, clearly filmed on a phone. Moonlight washed over a forest clearing. A tall, hunched figure stood in the center. Suddenly he convulsed, clutching his head, groaning in raw agony. Skin split open. Bones cracked audibly. Limbs stretched and twisted. Dark fur erupted from his flesh in violent waves. In seconds, a man had become a massive wolf—claws gleaming silver in the moonlight, golden eyes flashing with feral intelligence. The video cut abruptly to black.
Ivy's breath caught in her throat. Her hand trembled so violently she nearly spilled the cup. This wasn't CGI or a prank. It was too raw, too visceral. Too identical to the eyes seared into her memory from that blood-soaked night.
The email body contained only one chilling line:
"The monster of Ashwood is not a myth. Go to the abandoned Blackwood Lumberyard. The answers are there. But be careful—they can smell your fear."
Fear. Legends whispered that werewolves could sense it from miles away—that it fueled their hunt, sharpened their instincts. Was this a trap? A cruel joke? Or, finally, the lead she had waited eighteen years for?
She replayed the clip, zooming in on every frame. The background was unmistakable: Ashwood's towering hemlocks, the ever-present mist curling through the undergrowth. The lumberyard—an old, vine-choked industrial ruin abandoned decades ago, whispered to be haunted by distant howls on moonlit nights.
Ivy leaned back in the booth and closed her eyes. Her mother's scream echoed again in her mind, sharp and unending. That single night had broken her world. She had dropped out of school for two years, burying herself in supernatural research, occult forums, and half-forgotten books. She had clawed her way back to finish her degree and become a journalist, all so she could keep searching. Friends drifted away, calling her obsessed. Her editor called her reckless. She didn't care. Truth mattered more than safety. More than anything.
"I'm not chasing ghost stories," she whispered to the empty booth. "I'm chasing justice. Mom's death was no accident. I've always known."
She drew a long, steadying breath and made her decision. No more hesitation. No more waiting for permission or proof that might never come.
She pulled out her phone and texted Nora—her college roommate, now a librarian, one of the only people who knew the full, ugly truth.
"Nora, following a lead to the abandoned lumberyard. If I vanish, make sure the werewolf piece gets published. Kidding… mostly."
Nora's reply came instantly: "Ivy, are you insane? It's late, it's pouring rain, and you're going alone? Tell me everything so I can alert someone if needed."
Ivy managed a faint, tired smile as she typed back: "Anonymous video showing a full transformation. Looks way too real. I have to check it out. Don't worry—I've got pepper spray."
"Pepper spray against werewolves?" Nora shot back. "Come on. You know I worry. Don't let what happened eighteen years ago destroy you."
The words stung like salt in an old wound, but Ivy pushed the pain down. "I'll be fine. I'll call when I'm back. Love you."
She packed up—laptop into her backpack, empty coffee cup tossed in the trash—and pushed open the café door. Cold rain hit her face like icy needles. She had forgotten her umbrella, but it hardly mattered now. Water streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the dampness already gathering in her eyes—not tears, just rain. She hurried across the lot to her beat-up Ford, its body speckled with mud and scratches from too many late-night drives.
The engine growled to life. Rain lashed the windshield as the wipers swept back and forth in frantic rhythm. She drove toward the outskirts, city lights gradually fading behind her, swallowed by the encroaching dark wall of forest. Dense trees flanked the road on both sides, branches swaying in the wind like skeletal fingers whispering secrets. Her headlights carved narrow tunnels through the night, illuminating only a few feet ahead.
Then—a sudden flash in the underbrush.
Two golden eyes gleamed out of the darkness, locked directly on her.
Ivy slammed on the brakes. The car skidded slightly on the wet road. Her heart thundered so hard she could feel it in her throat. Those eyes… exactly like the ones from eighteen years ago. Burning, intelligent, predatory.
She blinked hard, rubbed her eyes, looked again.
Nothing. Just rain and shifting shadows.
A trick of the headlights? A hallucination born of exhaustion and old trauma?
Or a warning?
She exhaled shakily, fingers tightening on the wheel until her knuckles turned white. Then she pressed the accelerator and drove on into the blackness.
Behind her, unseen among the dripping trees, those same golden eyes followed. Watching. Waiting. The ancient, hungry pull already stirring something deep and primal inside him—a force he had spent years trying to bury.
The abandoned Blackwood Lumberyard waited ahead—holding answers… or the monster himself.