Hounds Backrooms Novels & Stories

"Ruthless. I knew you had it in you." He beckons me closer. "The old meatpacking district," he whispers. "The slaughterhouse on 9th. There's a sub-basement under the cooling floor. That's where Kyros keeps his... toys." "The slaughterhouse," I repeat. "Access code is 7-7-3-4," he adds. "It spells 'HELL' upside down. Kyros thinks he's funny." "Thank you," I whisper. I stand up. I brush the dust off my robe.

Something that smells of Hell. He stomped the ground with his paw as he turned his nose to the wind. Aiden lowered himself slightly to the ground. Amira climbed up onto his back and he let his nose guide him. He bounded through the forest that was now his hunting grounds for himself and his people. His home. "Should I call Dante and Willow? Do you think we need back-up?" She asked him, but he tossed his head. Not until we get a closer look. Have your gun ready.

Ruth didn't seem too pleased to see me. "Oscar Wilde, good to see you." Marco Winehouse said. He was the one in charge of the meeting, and he was the one with the intel. I sat down in the pub and paid for everyone's drinks as a token of my appreciation for them coming all the way to meet with me. "What is going on, guys? My uncle was beaten up, and my pack raided." I complained, and Marco exhaled. "You won't believe this shit, but Giles Hunter is back. His sect has done a lot of harm." Marco claimed, and I looked at him, stunned.

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.

The digital destination boards were dark. Not empty, though. In the shadows, another scent moved. Sharp. Predatory. Not wolf. Hound. A lean shape padded out from behind a pillar—sleek, black‑furred, eyes gleaming red under the emergency lights. A Tribunal tracking hound—bio‑engineered, nose keyed to Lunaris and other “anomalous” signatures. It snarled softly, hackles rising as it scented them. Its handler, somewhere in the dark, hissed, “Steady—” but the leash was loose enough to let it lunge if it chose.