Chapter 3- The Wolf at the Tree Line

I don’t know when I actually fall asleep. But when I wake, the light outside is pale and gray—the kind of morning where the sun never really bothers to show up.

I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes. My body feels tense, like I’ve been clenching my jaw all night.

The room is quiet. Too quiet.

I reach for my phone out of reflex.

Still no signal. Battery at 14%.

Perfect. Trapped in fog town, starring in a live-action forest horror movie—and no way to text for help. Not that anyone would care. My group chat probably thinks I ghosted them.

I sigh and drag myself to the window.

I push the curtain aside—and freeze.

He’s there.

At the tree line.

Not a man. A wolf.

But not any wolf I’ve ever seen. Massive, twice the size of normal, fur so black it catches blue in the weak light. He isn’t pacing, or sniffing. Just standing. Still as stone.

And those eyes.

Gold. Burning. The same eyes from my dream.

They’re locked on me, and I swear—he knows I’m watching back.

I don’t move.

Neither does he.

For a moment, it’s like the whole world narrows to this: me at the window, him at the edge of the woods, fog curling between us like breath. A string pulled tight from my chest to his.

I blink.

He’s still there.

I should close the curtain. Step back. Pretend I never saw him.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I keep staring.

He doesn’t even twitch. Just watches. Like he’s trying to remember me. Or decide something.

The world goes silent. Utterly, impossibly silent. No wind. No birds. Just the rush of blood in my ears.

I lean closer. My fingers brush the cold glass.

And then—he lowers his head, just slightly.

Like acknowledgment.

My breath catches. I jerk back so fast I nearly trip on the rug. My heel hits the nightstand, and my phone clatters to the floor.

I stand there, heart hammering.

Did that really happen?

I drop to my knees, crawl back to the window, and pull the curtain aside again.

He’s still there.

Watching.

Waiting.

My pulse won’t slow. There’s something deep in my chest that feels… pulled. Like recognition wrapped in warning.

And that terrifies me most.

I let the curtain fall and stumble away from the window.

This isn’t normal.

This isn’t nature.

It’s something else.

I take the stairs two at a time, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the creak of the floorboards. Every shadow feels alive. But I know he’s still at the edge of the woods. Burned into my mind: black fur like smoke, eyes like molten gold.

Claiming me.

I push into the kitchen.

Elsie stands at the stove again, humming low, stirring something in a copper pot. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look at me.

“I saw it,” I blurt. “Outside. Just standing there. Staring.”

She stirs once more, slow and careful. “Where?”

“By the trees. It was huge. Too still to be real.”

She turns the flame off.

“That wasn’t an animal,” I say, my voice rising. “It looked right at me.”

Now she faces me.

Not surprised. Just… resigned. Her shoulders set. Her mouth tight.

And I realize—she already knew.

“What the hell is it, Elsie?”

She moves quickly—faster than she ever has. She heads for the shelves above the fireplace and pulls down a small bundle of herbs tied with red string.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“If it didn’t cross the threshold, you’re still safe,” she says, voice clipped.

“I didn’t ask if I’m safe. I asked what it is.”

She lights the herbs, wafting the smoke into the corners of the kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times.

I follow her, heat rising in my chest. “Elsie, I need a real answer! That thing looked at me like it knew me!”

“The wards held,” she mutters. “It didn’t come closer.”

“Are you even listening? Wards? A wolf bigger than a horse is standing outside your house and you’re acting like this is normal!”

She stops. Turns fully.

And for the first time, I see real fear in her eyes.

“If it had crossed the threshold,” she says quietly, “we’d be having a very different conversation.”

I don’t speak.

Because I believe her.

Not just because of her face. But because every bone in my body said something was wrong the second I saw him.

“You’re not telling me enough,” I whisper. “You treat me like I’m breakable. Or temporary.”

She sets the smoking bowl down, her hands steady. “You don’t understand what lives here.”

“Then help me understand.”

“You’re not ready.”

Frustration boils under my skin. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Instead, I turn and walk out. I couldn't stop glancing at the window.

He’s still there.

Unmoving. Like stone. The breeze ruffles the trees behind him, but he doesn’t so much as blink.

It isn’t natural.

Animals don’t stand still for hours. They shift. They twitch.

By noon, I’m cross-legged on the floor, staring at the curtain. My chest hums with restless energy, the same static buzz as before.

I give in.

Pull the curtain aside.

He’s there.

My heart stutters. There’s something in my chest that pulls tighter. Not fear. Not quite. It feels like recognition—like my bones remember him even if my mind can’t.

And worse: curiosity.

Like part of me wants to go outside.

By sunset, the fog rolls in again, thick and low, swallowing the yard and the trees.

I open the curtain one last time.

He’s gone.

And somehow, that feels worse.

The house feels heavier after dark. Like the walls are holding something back.

I try to distract myself. I peel off my hoodie and tug at my shirt to change when I feel it: heat along my ribs. Sharp, almost like a burn.

I lift the edge of my bra, fingertips brushing the skin. Warm. Not painful. But alive. I grab the compact mirror buried in my bag, angling it to see.

Nothing.

I tilt it again.

And then—just as I exhale—I catch it.

A shape. Faint. White-gold. Not on my skin, but under it. Like light caught under water.

It pulses once, then fades.

A perfect circle of thin lines and thorned curves, like runes or teeth.

My breath catches. Fingers hover over the spot, not quite touching.

Then it’s gone.

A trick of the light, maybe. A stress rash. Leftover fragments from a nightmare.

Except it didn’t feel like that.

It felt like something waking up.

I close the compact and set it on the nightstand, but I don’t move for a long time. The silence stretches out, thick and waiting.

I try to sleep.

But the buzzing behind my ribs won’t fade.

Every creak of the house feels like footsteps. Every shift of wind feels like breath.

At some point, I must doze off.

⸻

I wake with a snap. No dream. Just a hard, cold pull. Something in me whispers: up.

I sit slowly. The candle burned out. Moonlight filters weakly through the curtains.

Then I hear it.

Low.

Deep.

A sound I don’t hear so much as feel—vibrating up through the floor and into my bones.

A growl.

I freeze.

It comes again. Slower. Heavier.

My hand moves before my brain catches up. I reach for the curtain. Part of me screams not to. But I do it anyway. I pull it back.

And he’s there.

Closer than he’s ever been. So close I can see his breath fogging the glass. Golden eyes locked on mine.

We don’t move.

His gaze burns through me, steady, claiming.

The growl rumbles again—low, resonant, not angry.

Protective.

Possessive.

He leans closer, nose nearly brushing the window.

I step back, breath caught.

But I don’t close the curtain.

Because part of me isn’t afraid.

And that’s what scares me most.