Updated Jan 5, 2026 • ~7 min read
POV: Rory
I woke to sunlight streaming through white curtains and pain screaming across my ribcage.
The kind of pain that said something was very, very wrong.
I lay still for a moment, trying to remember last night. Had I fallen? Hit something in my sleep? The cottage was small—maybe I’d rolled off the bed and caught myself on the nightstand.
Except I was in bed. Sheets tangled around my legs like I’d been fighting them. Pillow on the floor. But me, definitely still in bed.
I sat up slowly. Pushed the blanket aside. Lifted my sleep shirt.
Four claw marks. Fresh. Red and angry across my left ribcage.
Not scratches. Not accidental scrapes from a rough edge or a nail.
Claw marks. Deep enough to have bled. Four parallel lines that looked like something had raked across my skin with deliberate force.
My hands shook as I traced the edges. They were real. I wasn’t imagining this.
This was the fifth morning in a row.
The bathroom mirror confirmed what I already knew. Four marks. Precise. Evenly spaced. Too deep to be self-inflicted unless I’d done it unconsciously with… what? I didn’t have claws. Didn’t have anything sharp enough in bed to create these.
I checked my hands. Blood under my fingernails. Dark. Dried.
Not mine. I wasn’t bleeding enough to account for it. The claw marks had scabbed over hours ago—sometime during the night. This blood was fresh. Or fresher.
I scrubbed my hands in the sink. Hot water turning pink. Watched it spiral down the drain while my mind raced through possibilities.
Sleepwalking. I’d read about people who hurt themselves unconsciously. Who did things in their sleep they’d never do awake.
Except the doors were locked. All of them. I checked every morning, paranoid after the first marks appeared. Kitchen door: locked from inside. Front door: deadbolt engaged. Windows: latched.
Nothing had come in.
Which meant nothing had gone out either.
I dressed carefully, avoiding the marks. Jeans. Oversized sweater that hid everything. Hair pulled back. Tried to look normal despite feeling like I was losing my mind.
The cottage sat on the edge of Darkwood Forest. Fifteen minutes from town. Close enough to be convenient. Far enough to feel isolated.
I’d loved that when I moved in three years ago. Loved the quiet. The peace. The way the forest sounded at night—crickets and wind and the occasional owl.
Now every sound made me jump.
I worked at the Millbrook Library. Head librarian. Books and quiet and logical order. My refuge from the chaos of real life.
Or it had been. Until five days ago when logic stopped applying.
“You look like death,” Morgana announced the moment I walked in.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Seriously, Rory. Have you slept at all this week?” She followed me to my office. Morgana Chen—best friend, paranormal investigator, believer in everything I didn’t.
“I’ve slept fine.”
“Liar. You have bags under your eyes and you’re moving like everything hurts. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar. Always have been.” She perched on my desk. Twenty-eight and dressed in vintage band tees and ripped jeans. Her laptop covered in supernatural stickers. “Talk to me.”
I wanted to. Desperately wanted to tell someone that I was waking up with claw marks and blood under my nails and no explanation. That something was wrong and I couldn’t figure out what.
But saying it out loud made it real. Made it something that might require action. Doctors. Psychiatrists. People asking questions I didn’t have answers to.
“I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Nightmares?”
“Something like that.”
“About?”
Running through the forest. Hunting something I couldn’t see. Blood on my tongue. The smell of pine and earth and prey.
“Nothing specific. Just… weird dreams.”
Morgana’s eyes sharpened. She had a nose for the paranormal. Could sense when something was off.
“Rory. You live on the edge of Darkwood Forest. Weird stuff happens there. If something’s wrong—”
“It’s not the forest. It’s just stress. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. But okay. We’ll pretend you are.” She stood. “But when you’re ready to talk about whatever’s actually happening, I’m here. You know that, right?”
“I know. Thank you.”
She left. I buried myself in work. Cataloging new arrivals. Helping patrons find books. Anything to avoid thinking about the marks on my ribcage and the blood I couldn’t explain.
By closing time, exhaustion had settled into my bones. The kind of tired that felt deeper than one bad night. Like I’d been running for days without rest.
I drove home on autopilot. The cottage appeared in twilight—small, cozy, safe.
Except it didn’t feel safe anymore. Felt like a trap. Like something was waiting.
I checked every lock. Every window. Put bells on the doors like I had the past four nights. If something tried to get in—or if I tried to get out while sleepwalking—the bells would wake me.
Theory, anyway.
I made tea. Chamomile. Supposed to help you sleep. Sat on the couch with a book I couldn’t focus on. Watched darkness fall outside my windows.
The forest at night was different. Alive in ways daylight hid. I could hear it even through closed windows—rustling and movement and things that went bump in the dark.
Normal sounds. Natural sounds.
So why did they terrify me now?
I went to bed at ten. Locked my bedroom door even though I lived alone. Pulled the covers up to my chin.
Stared at the ceiling.
This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman. Rational. Logical. Librarian who dealt in facts and research and provable information.
Claw marks had explanations. Medical conditions that caused scratching. Allergic reactions. Skin sensitivity.
Blood under fingernails could be from unconscious scratching. From breaking skin while asleep.
Everything had a logical explanation.
Even the dreams.
Even the feeling that something was watching me through the windows.
Even—
I sat up suddenly. Listened.
Silence. Complete silence.
The forest had gone quiet.
No crickets. No wind. No rustling. Just… nothing.
Like everything out there was holding its breath. Waiting.
My heart hammered. This was stupid. I was being paranoid. There was nothing—
The sound of claws on wood. Slow. Deliberate. Something walking across my porch.
I froze. Barely breathing.
The footsteps stopped. Right outside my bedroom window.
I couldn’t see anything. Curtains drawn. Lights off. Just darkness and the knowledge that something was out there.
Watching.
Minutes passed. Hours. I lost track of time. Eventually the sounds faded. The forest came alive again. Normal nighttime noise.
But I didn’t sleep.
Couldn’t sleep.
Because at 3 AM, I opened my eyes to find a massive wolf sitting at the foot of my bed.
Bigger than any wolf should be. Amber eyes glowing in the darkness. Perfectly still. Just… watching me.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Frozen in primal terror.
We stared at each other. Woman and wolf. Predator and prey.
Then I blinked.
And it was gone.
Like it had never been there.
I turned on every light in the cottage. Checked every room. Every closet. Every corner.
Nothing. No wolf. No signs of entry. No evidence it had been real.
Except the scent. Wild and earthy. Pine and musk and something ancient.
The smell of a wolf that had been in my bedroom.
I sat on the couch until dawn. Lights blazing. Kitchen knife in my lap like it could protect me from whatever was hunting me.
When morning came, I found four new claw marks across my right shoulder.
Deeper than before.
And under my fingernails—more blood.
Fresh. Dark. Not mine.
Something was very, very wrong.
And I was running out of time to figure out what.
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