Updated Jan 5, 2026 • ~8 min read
POV: Rory
I woke to the smell of copper and earth.
Wrong. Everything was wrong.
My sheets were dark. Wet. When I sat up, they stuck to my skin.
Blood.
Not drops. Not a little. Soaked. Like something had bled out in my bed.
I scrambled back, falling off the mattress. Hit the floor hard. Stared at what should have been white cotton sheets now stained dark red.
Too much blood. Way too much.
I checked myself frantically. The claw marks from yesterday were still there—scabbed over, healing. No new injuries. Nothing actively bleeding.
This wasn’t my blood.
I ran to the bathroom. Turned on every light. Examined every inch of skin.
More claw marks. Fresh ones across my thighs. My arms. Like something had grabbed me. Held me down.
But no wounds deep enough to explain the blood on my sheets.
My feet were filthy. Caked in mud and pine needles. Forest dirt ground into my skin like I’d been walking—running—through the woods barefoot.
I didn’t remember. Didn’t remember anything after going to bed.
Had I sleepwalked? Gone into the forest? Done something I couldn’t recall?
The blood under my fingernails was back. Darker. More of it. Embedded so deep I’d need a brush to get it out.
I was going to be sick.
Made it to the toilet before losing what little was in my stomach. Heaved until there was nothing left. Sat on the cold tile floor shaking.
This couldn’t be happening. People didn’t just wake up covered in blood with no memory. Didn’t sleepwalk into forests and come back marked with claws.
Except I had. Was. Whatever this was, it was getting worse.
I showered until the water ran cold. Scrubbed every inch of skin. Cleaned under my nails with a brush until they bled. Tried to wash away the evidence.
But the sheets remained. Soaked and damning.
I stripped the bed. Threw everything in the washing machine. Hot water. Extra soap. Tried not to think about what I was cleaning.
The clock said 4 AM. Too early to call anyone. Too late to pretend this was normal.
I sat on my couch wrapped in a blanket and tried to remember last night.
Went to bed around eleven. Exhausted from the visit to Dr. Winters. Her words echoing: You’re not entirely human.
Had strange dreams. Running. Always running. Through trees and underbrush. Chasing something. Or being chased.
Then… nothing. Blank space until I woke to blood-soaked sheets.
Hours missing. Erased. Gone.
My phone buzzed. Text from Morgana at 4:15 AM:
Can’t sleep. You up?
I called her.
“Hey,” she answered immediately. “You okay? You sound weird.”
“I need you to tell me the truth. Do you think I’m losing my mind?”
Silence. Then: “What happened?”
“I woke up covered in blood. Not mine. I don’t know where it came from. My feet are covered in forest dirt. I can’t remember anything after going to bed.” The words tumbled out. “And Dr. Winters ran my blood work yesterday. Said my DNA has anomalies. That genetically I’m not entirely human. What does that even mean?”
“Rory, slow down. You woke up covered in blood?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t remember how it got there?”
“No. I think—I think I was sleepwalking. Into the forest. But I don’t remember any of it.”
“That’s… okay. That’s concerning. Where are you now?”
“Home. The cottage.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Morgana, it’s four in the morning—”
“I don’t care. You’re alone in a cottage on the edge of the woods. You’re waking up with injuries you can’t explain. I’m coming over. Pack a bag. You’re staying with me until we figure this out.”
“I’m not leaving my home—”
“Rory. Please. Just for a few days. Let me help.”
Her voice was desperate. Scared for me. And maybe I needed that. Needed someone else to be scared so I didn’t have to be alone in my terror.
“Okay. I’ll pack.”
She arrived forty minutes later. Took one look at me and pulled me into a hug.
“You look like hell,” she said into my hair.
“Feel like it too.”
She helped me pack. Clothes. Toiletries. Laptop. Enough for a week even though I told myself it would only be a few days.
“Show me the sheets,” she said.
I led her to the washing machine. The water was still dark red. Still running the rinse cycle.
“Jesus, Rory. That’s a lot of blood.”
“I know.”
“And none of it’s yours?”
“I checked. Multiple times. I have new scratches but nothing that would bleed this much.”
Morgana pulled out her phone. Started taking pictures.
“What are you doing?”
“Documenting. If something’s happening to you, we need evidence. Need to track patterns.” She looked at me seriously. “Do you believe in the paranormal?”
“You know I don’t.”
“I know you didn’t. But Rory—what if your DNA anomalies mean something? What if you’re not fully human because you’re… something else?”
“Like what? A vampire? A werewolf?” I laughed bitterly. “This isn’t a fantasy novel.”
“No, it’s your life. And weird stuff is happening. Stuff that doesn’t have logical explanations.” She gestured around. “You’ve been getting claw marks for a week. You’re waking up covered in blood. You’re sleepwalking into a forest that allegedly has legends about cursed territory and rogue wolves. At what point do we stop looking for normal explanations and start considering abnormal ones?”
“You think I’m a werewolf.”
“I think you might be something. And I think we should find out what before something worse happens.”
We drove to her apartment in town. She lived above the bookstore she owned—occult and paranormal specialty shop. Of course she did.
Her apartment was exactly what I expected. Crystals everywhere. Books on mythology and folklore. Incense burning. A cat named Shadow who hissed at me the moment I walked in.
“Shadow doesn’t usually do that,” Morgana said, watching her cat flee to the bedroom.
“Great. Even cats think I’m wrong.”
“Or he senses something different about you.” She gestured to the couch. “Sit. I’m making tea. Then you’re telling me everything from the beginning.”
So I did. Started with the first morning of claw marks. The wolf in my bedroom. The footprints. The deer carcass. Dr. Winters’ DNA results.
All of it.
Morgana listened without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a long time.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I have a theory. You’re not going to like it.”
“At this point, I’ll take any explanation.”
“What if you’re not sleepwalking? What if you’re… shifting?”
“Shifting.”
“Into a wolf. Or something wolf-like. What if the blood on your sheets is from hunting? What if the claw marks are from the transformation? What if—”
“I’m not a werewolf, Morgana.”
“You said your DNA isn’t fully human. What else would cause that?”
“Medical anomaly. Genetic mutation. Literally anything other than shapeshifting.”
“Then explain the blood. Explain the claw marks. Explain why you keep waking up with forest dirt on your feet and no memory of how it got there.”
I couldn’t. Had no logical explanation that fit all the evidence.
“Let’s say you’re right,” I said slowly. “Which you’re not. But hypothetically. How would I not know? Wouldn’t I remember transforming?”
“Not if it’s unconscious. Not if your human mind can’t hold onto the memories.” She pulled out a worn book. “I’ve researched this. Dormant shifters—people who have the genetics but it hasn’t activated yet. Sometimes it starts in adulthood. Triggered by stress or trauma or proximity to others of their kind.”
“I haven’t been around any werewolves.”
“Haven’t you?” She showed me a page. Illustration of a massive wolf. “What if that wolf in your bedroom wasn’t just watching? What if it was triggering your dormant genes? What if someone—something—wants you to awaken?”
The theory was insane.
Completely, utterly insane.
But it fit. It fit all the evidence better than anything else.
“I need to talk to Dr. Winters,” I said. “She knew something. When she saw the test results, she wasn’t surprised. She was… prepared. Like she’d been expecting this.”
“Then we visit her tomorrow. Get answers.” Morgana squeezed my hand. “But tonight, you sleep. I’ll keep watch. Whatever’s happening, you’re safe here.”
I wanted to believe her.
Wanted to think that distance from the cottage would make a difference.
But that night, I dreamed again.
Running through the forest. Four legs instead of two. Fur and muscle and pure, wild joy. The world in sharper focus—scents and sounds I shouldn’t be able to detect.
And beside me, another wolf. Larger. Darker. Amber eyes that glowed in the darkness.
Running together. Hunting together. Moving as one.
It felt real. More real than waking life.
When I opened my eyes, dawn was breaking. Morgana was asleep in the chair beside my makeshift bed.
And on my hands—my very human hands—were claw marks that looked like I’d been gripping something. Or someone.
Fighting against what I was becoming.
And losing.
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