Chapter 05 (Part 02)

Sunlight comes late in Thornebrook.

It doesn’t burst through windows or warm the walls—it just sort of leaks in, slow and pale, like it’s not entirely sure it’s welcome here. The light feels weak, filtered through layers of mist and cloud. It doesn’t chase away the shadows so much as make them grayer.

I wake with a dry mouth and a stiff neck, still curled under the blanket like it could’ve saved me from a monster. My muscles ache from staying tense all night. My head throbs with exhaustion.

The fog’s still outside. Thinner, but stubborn. It clings to the windows like it doesn’t want to let go.

The house is silent.

No breathing.

No scratching.

No circling shadows.

For a few seconds, I let myself believe I dreamed it all. That my mind conjured up monsters to fill the void left by civilization. That isolation and stress finally broke something in my brain.

I sit up, groaning. My limbs ache like I was in a fight, even though I barely moved all night. I rub my eyes and stand slowly, letting the cold morning air crawl up my legs. The floorboards are still cold, but the chill feels different now. Less threatening. More like normal early morning discomfort.

The house feels… off. Like it’s waiting.

I head downstairs, not sure what I’m looking for. Coffee? A functioning adult? Cell service? An escape hatch?

I get none of those.

The kettle sits cold and unused on the stove. Elsie is nowhere in sight. Maybe she left early to hunt spells or boil bones or whatever it is she does when she disappears for hours. Her bedroom door is closed, but I can’t hear any movement from inside.

I pad across the cold kitchen tiles, my bare feet making soft slapping sounds. The house feels larger in the morning light, more cavernous. Like the walls have stretched during the night.

I open the front door.

And that’s when I see it.

Blood.

Thick, dark, fresh blood—pooled at the threshold like a warning sign. It’s spread across the wooden planks in a perfect circle, too neat to be accidental. Too deliberate to be natural.

I stumble back, hand gripping the edge of the doorframe.

At first, I think maybe it’s a trick of the light. A stain. Something old. But the color is too vivid, too bright. It reflects the weak morning light like a mirror.

But then the smell hits me.

Metallic. Sharp. Alive.

And then I see the body.

A deer. Young. Its legs folded underneath it like it was placed there. Its throat is torn open. Steam still rises from the wound. The fur around the tear is matted and dark, and I can see the pale pink of exposed flesh underneath.

The eyes are glassy.

Its side is still twitching.

It was killed recently.

Right here.

I can’t breathe.

I take a step back, but my boot slides in the blood. I catch myself on the doorframe and nearly gag. The smell is overwhelming now, filling my nostrils and coating my throat. Sweet and coppery and wrong.

My stomach lurches. My skin goes ice cold.

I couldn’t move.

My stomach lurched.

My skin went ice cold.

This wasn’t random.

No. Not this. Not like this.

This wasn’t some wild animal. It hadn’t stumbled here. It hadn’t hunted.

It had been brought.

It was a gift.

Or a threat.

Either way…

It was for me.

I don’t know how long I sit on the front steps, staring at the body.

The steam rises slower now. The blood has stopped moving. But the smell—raw and wet and sharp—is everywhere. I can taste it when I breathe. It coats my tongue and makes my eyes water.

My fingers are numb. My eyes sting. My legs won’t move.

I try to make sense of it. Try to find a logical explanation. Wild animals kill things. That’s what they do. Maybe it was just coincidence. Maybe the deer ran onto the porch and something caught it there.

But I know that’s not true. The placement is too perfect. Too intentional. The deer is positioned like an offering on an altar.

Then I hear the door creak open behind me.

Elsie steps out barefoot, already holding a small clay bowl filled with herbs and ash. She doesn’t ask what happened. She doesn’t gasp or flinch. She’s not even surprised.

She just sees.

And begins.

She kneels beside the porch, muttering low and fast, pulling something from her pocket—a feather, a stone, a match. She lights the herbs in the bowl, the smoke curling up in thin gray ribbons. The scent is bitter and warm, like clove and firewood. It cuts through the smell of blood, making it bearable.

She doesn’t look at me. Not yet.

She places the bowl near the deer’s mouth and speaks three short words in a language I don’t understand. The words scrape the back of my ears. They sound old. Older than English. Older than anything I’ve ever heard.

Only then does she stand and face me.

I’m shaking.

“I didn’t dream it,” I whisper. “Last night. The scratching. The fog. The sound—it was outside my room.”

Elsie nods.

“It came back.”

Another nod.

I stare at her. “What the hell is it?”

Silence.

“Don’t tell me to hang herbs. Don’t tell me not to open the attic. I need answers.”

Elsie watches me for a long time. Then, quietly, she says, “It’s not just a wolf.”

“No shit.”

She ignores me. “It’s an Alpha.”

The word hits different. Like it carries weight. Like it doesn’t just mean leader. It means something older, more primal. Something that exists outside the normal rules.

I swallow. “A what?”

She steps past me and looks out into the fog. “A blood-bound. First wolf. Marked by the oldest line.”

My skin prickles.

“That’s not a thing,” I whisper.

Her voice is firm. “You saw him. You felt him.”

“I don’t—”

“He didn’t leave the carcass for the pack,” she says. “He left it for you.”

I stare at the blood.

“I’m not a part of this.”

Elsie finally looks at me again. “You are now.”

I laugh.

It’s short, sharp, cracked at the edges. Not because anything’s funny. Because I’ve officially passed the point of reason and landed in straight-up backwoods fever dream territory.

“What the hell does that mean?” I say, voice too loud. “An Alpha? Claimed me? Are we seriously doing this right now? Is this some kind of twisted local mating ritual? Because if a dude wants to ask me out, he can start with literally not leaving bloody deer on my porch!”

Elsie doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. She just watches.

And somehow that makes it worse.

“You’re not even surprised,” I spit. “You knew this would happen. You brought me here knowing.”

“I didn’t know when.”

I step away from the body, away from her, stumbling back toward the gate at the edge of the gravel path. “Screw this. I’m leaving. I don’t care if I have to walk all the way back to the last gas station. I’ll crawl if I have to.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

I shove the gate open with more force than necessary. It groans in protest but swings wide. Cold air hits my face. I’m halfway down the hill when the air shifts.

It’s subtle at first—just a change in pressure. Like a storm moving in. The fog swirls differently, and the temperature drops several degrees in seconds.

The scent of pine and something hotter, darker, cuts through the fog like a blade. Musk and earth and something that makes my hindbrain scream danger.

Then I hear it.

A crack.

Like a tree branch snapping under enormous weight.

Then something slams into the other side of the gate behind me.

I freeze.

The whole thing shudders. Metal rattles. Hinges scream. The sound echoes across the hillside, and I swear I can feel the impact in my bones.

I spin around and stare.

Nothing.

Just fog and the outline of the gate swinging wildly, like something hit it hard enough to bend the frame—but isn’t there anymore.

My heart hammers in my chest.

“What the hell was that?” I whisper.

Elsie is already at the top of the hill, arms crossed, face tight. She doesn’t look surprised. She looks resigned.

“That was your last warning.”

I swallow.

“You try to leave again,” she says, “and it won’t be the gate that takes the hit.”

I don’t move.

Because I believe her.

Because whatever’s out there?

It didn’t hit the gate to scare me.

It hit the gate to claim me.

And the forest?

It’s already made up its mind.