LUNAR VEIL

The road into Black Hollow narrowed the farther Evelyn Hart drove, until the asphalt itself seemed to hesitate, curling into the dark woods like a reluctant traveler. Towering pines pressed in from both sides, their needles whispering in the wind, and for a moment she wondered if she had taken a wrong turn somewhere past the county line. Her GPS had given up an hour ago, screen flashing with the cruel taunt: No signal.

Evelyn flexed her fingers on the steering wheel, trying to ease the stiffness that had settled after four hours of driving. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She belonged in a well-lit city morgue, stainless steel tables gleaming beneath fluorescent bulbs, where science stripped mystery down to bone and tissue. Yet here she was, climbing into the mountains on a winding road that seemed determined to keep secrets.

Her phone buzzed in the cupholder. She glanced down—no bars. It wasn’t a call. Just the battery notification slipping into the red. She shoved it into her bag and focused on the road, which had started to shimmer with fog as the afternoon sun waned behind jagged peaks.

The town appeared suddenly, as if conjured from the mist. Black Hollow was no more than a cluster of weatherworn buildings huddled along a single street: a diner with its neon sign stuttering, a general store with a wooden porch sagging under its own weight, a sheriff’s office that looked like it had been built before electricity. Beyond it all, mountains loomed like watchmen, their tree-lined slopes already swallowing daylight.

Evelyn pulled into the only motel, its sign creaking on rusted chains: Black Hollow Inn. She parked, cut the engine, and sat for a moment, hands resting on the wheel. A stillness pressed against the glass. The town had the kind of silence that wasn’t empty but expectant, as though the trees themselves were listening.

She exhaled, shook off the feeling, and stepped out. The cold hit her immediately, sharper than she expected for early autumn. She tugged her coat tighter around her and hauled her duffel from the backseat.

Inside, the inn smelled faintly of pine cleaner and old smoke. The clerk, a man in his late sixties with a patchy beard, slid a key across the counter without ceremony. “Room three. Sheriff’ll want to see you in the morning.”

Evelyn blinked. “Word travels fast.”

The man didn’t smile. “Ain’t much else to talk about.”

She carried her bag upstairs, past faded wallpaper patterned with roses that had long since lost their color. Her room was small but clean: a single bed, a dresser, curtains that swayed in a draft she couldn’t locate. She dropped her bag and sat on the edge of the mattress. For a moment, she considered lying back, closing her eyes, letting sleep claim her after the long drive. But the thought of the sheriff waiting made her restless. Better to get her bearings first.

The diner was still open, its neon sign buzzing like a trapped insect. Inside, a few locals sat hunched over their meals, voices low, eyes occasionally flicking toward her. Evelyn ordered coffee and a sandwich, ignoring the weight of their stares. She had spent years in morgues, dissecting tragedies with clinical detachment, but there was something about those stares—furtive, suspicious—that unsettled her more than death ever had.

A woman behind the counter, apron stained with grease, set down her plate. “You’re the doctor, huh? From the city?”

“Forensic pathologist,” Evelyn corrected gently. “Just here to help with the investigation.”

The woman wiped her hands on her apron, lips pressing into a thin line. “Don’t know what good it’ll do. Everyone knows it’s the wolves.”

Evelyn stirred her coffee, watching the dark liquid ripple. “Wolves don’t usually attack people.”

“Usually,” the woman echoed, as though the word itself proved her point.

A man at a corner booth muttered, “Tell that to Tom Greeley.”

The diner went quiet. Evelyn looked up. “Tom Greeley?”

The woman sighed. “First body they found. Or what was left of it.” She glanced toward the others, then lowered her voice. “Best you get some rest, Doctor. Sheriff’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

Evelyn ate in silence, though her stomach twisted around each bite. When she finally returned to her room, the curtains whispered in the draft again, and somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard a long, low howl rising against the mountains.

The sheriff’s office the next morning smelled of burnt coffee and paper that had yellowed with age. Sheriff Calhoun was a broad man in his fifties, his uniform stretched across his stomach, his eyes sharp beneath a brim of thinning hair. He gestured for her to sit, then slid a folder across the desk.

“Appreciate you coming up here, Dr. Hart. I’ll be honest—we don’t usually get specialists. County insisted.”

Evelyn opened the folder. The photographs inside were grainy, taken in poor light, but clear enough. A body torn open, flesh shredded, bones splintered. She had seen death in every imaginable form, but these wounds were brutal, almost deliberate.

“What kind of animal do you think did this?” she asked.

Calhoun leaned back. “Locals say wolves. Haven’t been any packs this far south in years, but… it’s the story that keeps people calm.”

“Wolves don’t mutilate like this,” Evelyn said, tracing the edge of a photo with her finger. “They go for the throat, quick kill. These wounds are—” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Excessive.”

Calhoun’s gaze held hers for a long moment. “You’ll see for yourself. Body’s at the morgue.”

The morgue was nothing like the facilities she was used to. A single-room basement beneath the sheriff’s office, dimly lit, the air heavy with disinfectant that only half-masked the metallic tang of blood. The body lay on a table beneath a sheet.

Evelyn pulled on gloves, her movements methodical, controlled. She lifted the sheet.

Tom Greeley stared up at her with glassy eyes, his face frozen in a rictus of terror. His torso was a ruin of torn flesh and jagged lacerations, ribs snapped like twigs. Evelyn leaned closer, tracing the pattern of the wounds.

Too wide for a wolf. Too deep. The claw marks were spaced unnaturally far apart, as if made by a creature larger than any predator she had studied. Bones were not just broken but crushed, pulverized under immense pressure.

She reached for her recorder. “Victim is male, mid-thirties. Multiple lacerations across chest and abdomen. Unusual depth and spacing inconsistent with wolf attack. Evidence suggests considerable force, beyond what would typically be inflicted by local wildlife.”

Her voice was steady, clinical, but inside, unease coiled tighter with every observation. Something about the injuries felt… intentional.

A knock on the door broke her concentration. She pulled off her gloves. Sheriff Calhoun stepped in. “How bad is it?”

“Bad enough that I can tell you this wasn’t a wolf.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

She studied him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Calhoun glanced toward the body, then back at her. His voice dropped low. “Let’s just say Tom ain’t the first we’ve lost this way. And if I’m right, he won’t be the last.”

That night, Evelyn sat by the motel window, staring into the black line of trees at the edge of town. The wind rattled the glass. In the distance, a howl rose—long, mournful, but deeper than any wolf she had ever heard.

Her rational mind whispered explanations: stray dogs, coyotes, even the echo of wind through the mountains. But her gut twisted with a recognition she didn’t want to name.

Something out there was hunting. And it wasn’t a wolf.