Chapter 5- The Howl

IVY’S POV:

I’m not asleep.

Not even close.

I’ve been lying in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks in the paint like they might hold some kind of secret. They don’t. Just more proof this house is falling apart around me. The largest crack starts near the light fixture and spreads outward like a spider web, each hairline fracture catching what little moonlight filters through the thin curtains.

The air is still. Too still. Like the walls are holding their breath with me.

My sheets are twisted around my legs from all the tossing and turning. The pillowcase is damp with sweat despite the cool night air. Every small sound—the settling of old wood, the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the whisper of wind through the eaves—makes my nerves jump.

I check my phone again.

1:38 a.m.

Battery: 3%.

No signal.

I should turn it off, save what little juice is left, but I can’t. It’s the only light in the room, the only thing that feels remotely connected to the real world. The blue glow feels like a lifeline, even though I know it’s useless out here. I turn the screen over on my chest and stare into the dark again.

The silence stretches, thick and oppressive. I can hear my own heartbeat, too loud in the quiet. My breathing sounds harsh and uneven. The old house creaks around me like it’s alive, like it’s watching.

Then I hear it.

Soft.

Scratching.

At first, I think it’s just the house. A loose shingle. A branch tapping the siding. This place is old and creaky and full of weird noises—it’s probably nothing. The wind picking up, maybe. Or a squirrel in the walls.

It happened again.

Long.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I held my breath. Frozen. Listening.

Not wind. Wind was fickle, clumsy, foolish. Wind didn’t think.

This… this thought.

It scraped again. Low, dragging. A sound that came from something with purpose. Like clawing — scratching. Patient.

I waited.

Nothing.

Just the quiet hum of the fridge down the hall. The tick of the thermostat kicking in.

Then—

Scratch.

Scratch.

Closer now.

My breath catches. I sit up slowly, every part of me tensed. The sound is too rhythmic, too purposeful. It’s not the chaotic scraping of an animal looking for food or shelter. It’s measured. Controlled.

The sound isn’t near the window this time. It’s lower. Farther down the wall. Like it’s circling the house. Clawing its way around the perimeter.

I freeze, straining to hear. My ears feel hypersensitive, picking up every tiny sound. The scratch of claws on wood. The soft thud of something heavy shifting its weight. The whisper of movement through the fog outside.

Footsteps? No. Too heavy. Too slow. The kind of movement you don’t want to believe is real. Something big.

Something careful.

Something that knows exactly what it’s doing.

I fumble for the flashlight in my nightstand drawer, but I stop halfway through grabbing it. A light might draw it closer. Or show me something I don’t want to see. My hand hovers over the drawer handle, trembling.

My skin prickles all over, a crawling sensation that starts in my spine and spreads outward. Every hair on my arms stands on end. My mouth goes dry.

The scratching stops.

For a second, I think it’s over. Whatever it was—gone. Maybe it was just my imagination after all. Maybe the isolation is finally getting to me.

Then I hear the breathing.

Low.

Right outside the wall. Like something is pressed close to the siding, its muzzle inches from the wood. It exhales slowly, like it’s testing the air inside. The sound is deliberate, patient. Hunting.

I press my back against the headboard and pull the blanket up to my chest even though I know it won’t help. The fabric feels flimsy, useless. Like tissue paper against a hurricane.

Another breath.

Deeper this time. Longer. Like it’s drawing in my scent, memorizing it.

Then a thump—just the soft sound of weight shifting, like a heavy body repositioning itself. The wall seems to vibrate with the impact, and I swear I can feel the house shudder around me.

I want to scream. I want to run.

But my legs won’t move.

Because something deep in me is whispering, Don’t run. It likes that.

The voice in my head sounds like instinct, like some primal part of my brain that knows things my conscious mind refuses to accept. Prey runs. Prey gets chased. Prey gets caught.

I clamped my eyes shut and stood still.

The breathing continued.

In…

And out.

Like it had already decided something. And now, it was simply waiting for me to figure it out too.

Eventually, it faded.

Like a tide pulling away. Like it had never been there at all.

The scratching didn’t return.

But the fear?

It stayed.

I stared at the wall.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Twenty.

I wasn’t sure anymore. Time had stopped behaving.

My eyes didn’t move, but my thoughts were racing—rewinding, fast-forwarding, skipping frames.

I kept waiting.

For the scratch.

For the breath.

For whatever the hell that thing was that had pressed itself against the house like it was waiting to be let in.

But the night drags on, silent and slow, and nothing comes. The fog outside grows thicker, pressing against the windows like ghostly fingers. The house settles deeper into its foundation, every board and beam creaking with age.

My fingers are numb from gripping the edge of the blanket. I don’t realize it until I try to move and they feel stiff, like they’ve been frozen in place. The blood has stopped circulating properly, and pins and needles shoot up my arms when I finally let go.

I unwrap myself carefully and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

The floor is cold under my feet. The old hardwood feels like ice, and I have to bite back a gasp. Each step sends a chill shooting up my spine.

I move toward the window, slow and quiet, each board beneath me groaning like it’s trying to warn me away. The floorboards are loose in places, and they sag slightly under my weight. The sound seems impossibly loud in the silence.

I hesitated, fingers hovering inches from the curtain.

Why am I doing this?

I knew better. Every nerve in my body told me not to look. Told me to bury myself in blankets, pretend the world outside didn’t exist. That the wall between me and it was enough.

But it wasn’t.

If I look out and it’s there like last time, I’ll scream. I’ll die. I’ll lose whatever shred of sanity I have left.

My hand trembled as my fingers touched the curtain.

The fabric was rough. Old. Worn. I’d never noticed before. But now I could feel every thread under my skin like tiny cuts. Dampness clung to it — not from inside, but from the fog pressing against the outside of the windowpane. It had seeped in through the glass, chilling the room, making everything feel clammy, like breath on skin.

But if I don’t look?

I’ll never sleep again.

I didn’t pull the curtain open. Not all the way.

Just an inch.

A single slit in the dark.

I leaned in.

And looked.

Fog.

Thick, pale, and endless.

There was nothing there.

Just fog.

It’s thick, pressed against the glass like breath. The yard is completely obscured, and the trees are just dark, blurry outlines behind the mist. Everything looks muffled, distant. Like the world has been wrapped in cotton.

I widen the gap a little more and press my forehead to the glass.

Still nothing.

The cold glass burns against my skin, but I don’t pull away. I scan what little I can see of the yard, looking for any sign of movement. Any hint of what was out there.

I exhale and step back.

Maybe it’s over.

Then something moves.

Fast. Heavy. A shape cutting through the fog on the far side of the yard—large, black, low to the ground.

My breath catches.

It’s too big for a dog. Too silent for a bear. Too fluid for anything natural. The way it moves is wrong, predatory. Like it’s built for hunting things that don’t want to be caught.

I don’t see it clearly. Just flashes through the mist.

A shoulder. A back leg. The curve of a haunch.

It’s circling the house.

I back away from the window slowly, step by step, my pulse hammering in my ears. The sound of my heartbeat is so loud I’m sure it can hear it. Sure it knows exactly where I am.

It doesn’t growl.

It doesn’t howl.

It doesn’t even look up.

But I know it knows I’m watching.

And I know it wants me to.