Chapter 1: The Dream
The awakening was like a whip crack. Duncan Grey sat up in bed, his heart hammering in his chest like a trapped bird. The sheet was soaked with cold sweat, which smelled of pure fear and trampled grass. He gasped, bringing a hand to his left shoulder. There, under the thin fabric of his T-shirt, he expected to find torn flesh, sharp pain, the dampness of blood. But there was only intact skin. Smooth, warm, without the slightest scratch.
With a sudden movement, he tore off his T-shirt and stood in front of the mirror built into his wardrobe. The grayish light of dawn filtering through the window illuminated his reflection: a thin, pale boy with brown hair tousled by the nightmare and freckles that seemed more pronounced under his eyes. Nothing. Not even a bruise. He ran his fingers over his shoulder, pressing down. Only the echo of phantom pain, a muscle memory so vivid it made him shudder.
"A dream," he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse from lack of use. Just an incredibly vivid dream.
But the details didn't dissipate as nightmares usually do. They felt burned into his mind: the burning humiliation of waiting in vain in the park, Sofia's name stuck like a poisoned dart in his mind, the midnight walk along the deserted road connecting Oakhaven to the forest of old oak trees. And then the sounds: the bushes rustling with an intent that was not the wind. The panic, viscous and rising. The blind dash through the forest shortcut, the same one he used as a child to look for blackberries.
And the creature.
The full moon, silvery and enormous, hung like a celestial beacon over the clarity of the forest. The silhouette that emerged, not from among the trees, but from the darkness itself, enormous and powerful. At least ten feet tall. Dark fur that drank in the moonlight and reflected it back in blue flashes. And those eyes: glacial blue, intelligent, hypnotic eyes that pierced him and held him in an ecstasy of terror. The low growl, the breath that fogged the cold air. His clumsy attempt at defense with a branch... and the wolf's quick, brutal movement. The sudden, searing pain in his shoulder. The fall into the damp grass, his vision clouding as the full moon became the last seal on his sky. A dream. It had to be.
The creak of the door opening made him jump, turning around with the instinct of someone expecting to be attacked.
"Duncan? Good heavens, you were screaming. Those nightmares from your books again?" It was his mother, Elaine, peering in with a frown and a robe thrown over her shoulders. Her gaze, full of weary concern, swept over his naked, sweaty torso. "Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Duncan swallowed, forcing a calm he didn't feel.
"Yes, Mom. Just... a bad dream. Very real. Nothing important."
"About exams again? Or... about Sofia?" she asked gently, which Duncan found more painful than a reproach.
The name brought back memories of disappointment, clearer and more recent than those of the child, and his stomach churned. Oakhaven High School graduation day. He had mustered all his courage, months of it, to approach Sofia Marlowe, the girl with the easy smile and hair like ripe wheat, who always asked him for "help" with her physics homework and then forgot about him in the hallways. He, the "brainiac" Duncan, useful for notes, invisible for everything else. She had said yes to going out, with a smile that seemed like sunshine to him. A week ago, she had stood him up. He waited like an idiot in the town park until the streetlights came on and the shame became colder than the night.
"Something like that," she muttered, avoiding his gaze. He couldn't explain that the nightmare had started right there, in the empty park, and had turned into something... else.
"Well, take a shower. You have the research club hike today, don't you? The fresh air of the forest will do you good. It will take your mind off... well, everything." His mother smiled weakly and closed the door.
I love my mom, ha ha, Duncan says to himself.
The Oakhaven Unexplained Phenomena Research Club. Or the "Circle of Nutcases," as some called it. His only social refuge, a group of three misfits (himself included) who cataloged sightings of strange lights, rumors of cattle mutilations, and the well-known stories of the "Bear Man" of Oakhaven. Local legends. Folklore to scare tourists. Until now, Duncan had treated it as a hobby, a game of data and probabilities.
He dressed mechanically. As he put on his clean T-shirt, the fabric brushed his shoulder and, for a moment, an electric chill, completely unrelated to the touch of the cotton, ran through his skin from that exact spot. He stopped, holding his breath.
He looked out the window of his room, which overlooked the outskirts of town. There, silhouetted against the brightening sky, was the dark, familiar outline of the Forest of the Ancient Oaks. The same one from his dream. A place he knew like the back of his hand.
Or so he thought.
For the first time, as he watched the black line of trees against the sunrise, a deep, cold doubt settled in him. It wasn't fear, not yet. It was the impossible, defiant certainty that the details of the nightmare were too specific, too physical. The smell of wet earth and moss. The texture of the branch he grabbed. The weight of that wolf's gaze.
And the pain.
As he went down for breakfast, an absurd and persistent idea began to take shape in his mind, fueled by all the "crazy" stories he had collected. What if it hadn't been a dream? What if that night, after Sofia didn't show up, he had gone for a walk, hurt and confused, and had found something in the woods? What if the bite... hadn't been meant to hurt?
As he passed the mirror in the hall, he caught a glimpse of himself out of the corner of his eye. For a fleeting second, a fraction of a moment, he thought he saw a pale blue flash, like the reflection of a distant crystal, deep in his own brown eyes.
He blinked, and there was only his reflection, normal and frightened.
But the seed of doubt had already been planted. Oakhaven held its secrets. And Duncan Grey, the boy who only believed in what he could measure and record, had just received, in the form of a dream or a bite, an invitation to discover them.
That was the spark. The doubt became an urgent need, a tingling under his skin that was not fear, but a deep and dangerous curiosity. He had to go back. He had to go to the clearing in the forest, during the day, with a clear mind. To seek answers, to seek anything that would confirm or deny the madness growing inside him.
Backtracking again He opened his bedroom door decisively, the plan already mapped out in his mind: a quick shower, breakfast, and leave before his mother or sister could hinder him with questions or criticism.
The first obstacle appeared immediately. As he opened the bathroom door, he stopped dead in his tracks, the air caught in his lungs.
Tiffany, his older sister, was there, in a posture of practiced intimacy. One leg rested on the floor, the other raised and resting on the edge of the toilet, offering a complete and carefree view of her crotch as she shaved it.
It's pink, Duncan thought. She wasn't wearing a single piece of clothing. Her milky white skin glowed under the fluorescent light. Her long brown hair, with a silkiness that had always seemed unfair to him, was pulled back into a messy bun that revealed the grace of her neck. Her eyes, unlike Duncan's ordinary brown ones, were a piercing emerald green. And her body... Tiffany's body was a work of art that Duncan, despite himself, could not be blind to. Her breasts, firm and generously sized, hung with a perfection that made his mouth go dry. Her nipples, pink and erect, seemed to defy the room. And her curves, the arch of her back to her round, prominent buttocks, completed a silhouette that always made him feel like a scribble next to a sculpture.
At that moment, Tiffany raised her head. Her green eyes caught Duncan's frozen figure in the doorway. There was no blush, just an arched eyebrow and a mocking, cruel smile.
"What are you looking at, virgin?" he said, with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Are you lusting after your own sister? Close the door and get in the bath already, before I kick your ass. And if you complain, I'll tell Mom." Maybe that'll knock the sissiness out of you. You should go to the gym more, skinny.
I know you say that, but I know deep down you love me. Duncan knew she was just teasing him to get him to be more assertive, which he appreciated, but it didn't appeal to him since he was always teased by that kind of narcissistic people at school.
The words, as always, fell like stones. Tiffany was a year older than him, which meant that when he started his first year at community college, she would be in her second, reigning with the same ruthless confidence. Duncan could only sigh, the urgency of his mission colliding with the crushing reality of his sister. He closed the door, but not completely.
A sudden impulse, a spark of frustration that sprang from the shame and strange energy he had carried inside him since the "dream," made him act.
He threw the door open, leaned in quickly, and gave one of those perfect buttocks a sharp, hard slap.
Smack!
"Ouch! Are you crazy? Be careful what you do, you idiot!" Tiffany shouted, startled, bringing a hand to the area.
"Sorry, sis," Duncan said, noticing with surprise that his voice wasn't shaking. "I couldn't resist."
Then, in an act of defiance that even he didn't fully understand, he began to undress to get into the shower, shamelessly revealing his slim, almost skeletal body, his pale, undefined torso. But there was one exception. Between his legs, in stark contrast to his frail build, hung a member of considerable size, thick and long, which was already imposing even when flaccid.
Tiffany, recovering from her shock, let out a gasp. Her green gaze lowered, scanning her brother's body with disdain, but lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary on that "anomaly."
"That," she said, in a tone that wasn't entirely mocking, "is the only good part about you."
Duncan, already under the hot water, pretended not to hear her.
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about," she replied from outside, her voice a little lower. "Get in the shower already."
To his surprise, a few minutes later, Tiffany joined him in the shower. There was no modesty, it was an old habit from when they were children, one she had never completely abandoned, perhaps to reaffirm her dominance. They passed the soap to each other and rubbed shampoo into each other's hair. Duncan, with water running down his face, couldn't help but think bitterly: I didn't get the good genes. His mother, Elaine, was a mature, serene beauty with long, lustrous blue-black hair that reached her buttocks and blue eyes that looked like something out of a painting. Tiffany was her spitting image, with her own splendor. He, on the other hand, with his mediocre height, skinny body, unattractive brown hair, and square glasses, looked like a mistake, an intruder. How sad, he thought, although a part of him, the part that remembered the blue flash in the mirror and the mark on his shoulder, was beginning to question that idea.
Dressed in baggy pants, boots, a long-sleeved shirt, and a cap (a style Tiffany would undoubtedly describe as "catastrophic"), he went down to the kitchen.
There was Elaine, his mother. She was wearing a short silk robe that, in practice, covered little more than a suggestion. The fabric opened with every movement, revealing the deep valley between her generous, firm breasts, which protruded without restraint. The robe cinched at her waist and then floated over wide hips and a lush butt that swayed with every step, a display of confident, sensual maturity.
"Good morning, sweetheart," she said with a warm smile, approaching him. Her perfume, somewhat floral and sweet, enveloped Duncan.
"Good morning, Mom," he murmured, planting a quick kiss on her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin.
"Sit down, son. Breakfast will be ready soon."
Duncan obeyed. In a few minutes, Elaine placed a steaming plate of crispy bacon and fluffy scrambled eggs in front of him, along with a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She leaned over to set the plate down, and her robe opened a little wider, offering a view that Duncan tried to ignore, focusing on the aroma of the food.
"A tasty breakfast. Only the best for my baby," she said, stroking his hair with one hand.
Duncan nodded, a knot of conflicting emotions in his throat. There he was, in the midst of an overwhelming and sensual everyday life, with the secret of the mark on his shoulder burning like a coal hidden under his clothes, and the urgent need to go deep into the forest to search for the truth of a dream he did not want to forget. The worlds of Oakhaven, his family, and the nightmare were beginning to collide, and he was right at the epicenter, with a hot breakfast in front of him and a cold mystery waiting for him among the ancient oaks.
End of chapter...