Something in The Dark

Aaron’s boots crunched over the gravel driveway, each step echoing into the vast night. The forest loomed close now, dark and thick, swallowing the moonlight where it hit the tree line. He muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to Louise who wasn’t there, blaming her anyway.

“You made me do this,” he slurred, taking another swig from the bottle he’d grabbed on the way out. The liquid burned as it went down, a familiar edge to numb the tension, the guilt, the anger—the mix he couldn’t sort. “Always… always… pushing me. Can’t you see what you do?”

The air changed as he stepped between the trunks. Night creatures stirred in the shadows: rustles, the faint snap of a branch under small paws. Aaron barely noticed at first, too focused on his own spiral. The forest pressed in, trees like sentinels, dense, unwelcoming. He had walked further than he had ever dared—wanting the distance, the silence, the illusion of control.

A faint movement flickered at the edge of his vision. He turned sharply, squinting, but the darkness swallowed whatever it had been. A low growl, almost imperceptible, rolled through the underbrush, vibrating in his chest. Aaron’s pulse skipped.

“Dog?” he muttered, laughing weakly at himself. “You’re just a dog. Go away.” He shook his head, muttering, shoving the thought down, dismissing it.

Then came the first strike.

Something heavy lunged from the shadows, jaws clamping down on his calf. Pain erupted, hot and shocking, teeth sinking deep. He screamed, stumbling backward, hands clawing at the fur, the weight, the bite. The taste of blood hit him instantly, coppery and sharp.

“Get off me! Get the—” His words were cut off as it yanked him again, the force knocking him onto the rough earth. Roots snagged at his boots, tearing through fabric, digging into skin. Panic overtook the drunken haze.

He kicked, flailed, cursed, his hands sliding along fur, hair, and something wet. The thing was massive, heavier than any dog should be, with strength that made him feel like a child. Pain radiated through his leg, burning, spreading up into his hip, and his vision narrowed into white-hot focus: survive, get back, make it stop.

He staggered upright, screaming, stumbling blindly toward the faint glow of the house. Branches tore at his jacket and face, the underbrush clawing at his skin. Every step was agony, but adrenaline kept him moving, carrying him through the suffocating dark.

By the time he reached the edge of the clearing where the driveway glimmered in the moonlight, the thing released him. His calf was bleeding heavily, the bite deep, the tissue already swelling under the wound. He cursed again, spitting out blood from a cut lip, shaking with rage and pain.

He looked back at the forest, heart hammering. Nothing. Only the shadows, silent, waiting.

Aaron’s fingers dug into his thigh as he limped toward the house, blood dripping, leaving a dark trail behind him. The forest had watched him, and maybe it still did. Maybe it was out there, still hungry, still waiting. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he had survived.

At least, he thought, until he reached the door and felt the ache in his bones, the throbbing of the bite, and the seed of a panic that was already too big to shake.