Hounds Backrooms Novels & Stories

He stepped through the doorway and made his way down the stairs, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. At the bottom of the stairs, Arnold stepped into an elevator that whisked him deeper beneath his house. The doors slid open to reveal a hidden lair; the secret headquarters of the Silversmith Werewolf Hunters. The room was a maze of ancient artifacts and modern arsenal, shrouded in an aura of foreboding and dread.

Shannon was on the other side of the road; she was following a blood trail. “I think this is a trap.” She said abruptly, hurrying back to the vehicle. “What?” “We have to get out of here now.” Shannon warned with a distressed expression, dragging me to the car. Before I could register what was happening, I heard the pounding of wolf paws on earth and growls as a pack of hounds breached the roadside, ragged, driven by the thirst for blood, prepared to unalive us all. “Hounds.” Aiden roared, hurrying toward the vehicle to pull out the crossbow and quiver of arrows.

Another watched me, head tilted, before fluttering to the handlebars of the bike. The numbers on my arm dimmed, their light leaching into the swamp mud. Only the crow saw—its red eye reflecting the fading glow like a dying star. The swamp belched up a guttural yipping. Three coyotes slunk from the kudzu, ribs pressing against mange-peeled hides. Their eyes burned amber, too human in the half-light. The leader limped, its left foreleg bent like a question mark etched in bone—a broken compass needle pointing nowhere good. Mamá had warned me about these: the kind Mamá called ‘crossroads hounds’, shaped by the land’s hunger.

They are gray, with large, stout, pitbull bodies, very little hair, and heads are round with tiny cauliflower ears, beady dark eyes, and puglike snouts. While I’m tearing through one, another jumps on my back, but before he can bite me, I flip him over my head and toss him into a nearby wall. My vision blurs as I continue to fight the endless amounts of hellhounds that keep coming through the door. It’s a bloody siege, and I’m in the middle of it. Taking a couple of steps back, I cover my bleeding wounds and continue to fight. Blood and gore decorate the walls and floor until you only see dead hounds.

The quarrel in the room seemed very fierce, even though the sound seemed muffled, but Audrey felt that there was something strange about whoever was arguing in the room. Goosebumps rose on Audrey's neck and she wanted to leave, but before Audrey took a step, there was a loud crash and the door to the room opened with a loud sound, one of the hinges was even broken. Audrey was frozen where she stood and in front of her now standing on their four sturdy legs, two wolves, one with dark gray fur and the other is white with brownish yellow poles, stood facing each other in an angry and defiant manner.

Somewhere deeper inside, I thought I heard the faint drip of water. Room after room, I searched. I found a parlor with peeling wallpaper, and a storage closet that smelled of mold. Each one felt wrong, as though eyes watched me from the shadows. And then I reached the back room. At first, it looked like little more than a storage space. Crates stacked in one corner, old rags tossed into a bin. But the air here was heavier, the scent was stronger with that sweet and sour scent, threaded with something that made my wolf snarl.

Shadow told me his name was Cain, and I should never make eye contact with him unless I had a death wish and a signed will. Then there were the groups the ones that ran in packs like wolves, They laughed too loud and Hit too hard but also Moved in unison. Shadow leaned next to me at some point and pointed them out one by one. “Those are the Hounds,” he muttered. “They backstab for fun.”... I just nodded then my gaze moved to ... I don't know the dude looks short. “And that little dude?” “Don’t be fooled,” Shadow said. “He once ripped a guy’s ear off with his teeth. He’s sixteen.”

“I want triple for this, Sable.” “You’ll get it,” Kieran said. “And you’ll be able to say the Tribunal never laid a hand on a girl under your roof. That alone’s worth something.” “Not if they shut me down anyway,” Ira grumbled. “Back room.” The “back room” was barely bigger than Daire’s safehouse kitchen—just enough space for a table, four chairs, and a wall of shelves overflowing with pawned electronics and chipped dishes.

MEANWHILE. In a dimly lit backroom of a run-down tavern, known as "The Hollow Pointe." Where the air reeks of spilled ale and whispered deals. The room is filled with shadowy figures, all mercenaries, of different races: humans, werewolves, and vampires, but all of them are bounty hunters, and opportunists seeking their next payday. The noise inside the filthy basement was soon disturbed by the simultaneous buzzing of phones as a name popped up at the top of the list.

“You help me, I keep you out of prison. You’re not here to ask questions.” Emily stood her ground, crossing her arms. “I know you, Hound. I will not serve as an accessory to your murders or whatever you have planned.” Hound sighed, a bitter chuckle escaping his lips. Slowly, he began to strip off his shirt, revealing the intricate runes etched across his body in deep blue ink. The sight was both mesmerizing and harrowing. “I watched my mother die, overworked as a slave,” he began, his voice trembling. “I should have pushed her off the building… It would’ve been the greatest mercy I could’ve offered her.”