The Blood in the Mist
The mist was thicker than memory. It curled around the trees like pale fingers, swallowing the headlights of Detective Aiden Cross's jeep as it wound its way up the lonely road to Black Hollow. The wipers squeaked across the windshield, fighting against a drizzle that wasn't quite rain but heavy enough to make the air taste of iron.
He hadn't been back here in ten years.
Ten years since the fire that burned his father alive.
Ten years since the night the wolves came howling through the valley and left half the town torn apart.
Ten years since he'd sworn never to return.
Yet here he was again, summoned not by choice but by duty—or maybe fate.
The police radio crackled beside him.
"Detective Cross, do you copy?"
He pressed the receiver to his lips. "Go ahead."
Static hummed, then a voice came through—Chief Marlowe, his old mentor.
"They found another one. Same pattern. You'll want to see this for yourself."
Aiden swallowed hard. "Location?"
"North edge of the woods. Near the old logging trail. And Aiden…"
A pause. The kind that meant something heavy was coming.
"…you might want to brace yourself. This one's bad."
The line went dead.
Bad was an understatement when it came to Black Hollow.
The town had always carried a kind of quiet rot—one that spread not through disease, but through fear. Stories of cursed wolves, of moonlit screams, of people who went missing only to return changed—or never return at all.
Aiden used to laugh them off as campfire tales. Until the night his father was found with his throat ripped open and claw marks that no human hand could make.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. The jeep groaned as it climbed the last hill before the sign came into view:
WELCOME TO BLACK HOLLOW
Population: Unknown.
The letters were faded, the metal rusted, as if the town itself had given up counting the living.
He parked near the edge of the forest, stepping out into the cold breath of the mist. His boots crunched over wet leaves. The smell of blood was faint but unmistakable—sharp and metallic, carried on the wind like a warning.
Aiden adjusted his coat and followed the sound of murmuring voices ahead. Flashlights glimmered through the fog.
"Detective," a young officer greeted him, trying to sound braver than he looked. "Over here."
Aiden approached, nodding silently. The officers parted, revealing what was left of the victim.
The body was torn open—mangled beyond recognition. Deep claw marks across the chest. A face half-bitten, eyes wide and glassy, staring at nothing.
"Jesus," one of the officers whispered. "You think it's an animal?"
Aiden crouched beside the corpse. "No animal does this." His voice was low, grim. "This was deliberate. Look at the angle of the wounds. The precision."
"Precision?" the young cop echoed. "Sir, that thing looks shredded."
"Exactly." Aiden met his gaze. "Whoever—or whatever—did this knew where to hit. Fast. Fatal."
He studied the dirt beside the body. Tracks. Big ones. Deep.
Wolf prints.
But wolves this size didn't exist. Not outside nightmares.
Aiden exhaled slowly, standing. "Get the body bagged. Send it to forensics. And no word of this to the press. Not yet."
The officer nodded, though his eyes betrayed fear.
As the others worked, Aiden drifted away, following the trail deeper into the woods. The fog closed around him. His flashlight flickered.
Every instinct screamed at him to stop—but instinct meant little when your whole life was built on chasing monsters.
He found something half-buried under the mud—a silver pendant, old and tarnished, shaped like a wolf's head. His heart stuttered.
He knew this symbol. He'd seen it before, burned into his father's old journal.
The mark of the Black Hollow Pack.
Suddenly, a low growl cut through the silence.
Aiden froze. The hair on his neck bristled. Slowly, he turned.
Something moved in the fog—tall, silent, watching. Eyes glowed amber for just a heartbeat, then vanished.
He drew his gun, the weight of it both comfort and curse. "Show yourself!"
No answer. Just the wind.
But Aiden knew what he'd seen.
And worse, he knew what it meant.
The curse was waking again.
---
The next morning, Black Hollow Police Station was a cramped box of cigarette smoke, coffee stains, and creaking floors. The town hadn't changed much—same old gossip, same old fear.
Chief Marlowe leaned back in his chair when Aiden entered. "You look like hell."
"I drove all night."
"You always did." The chief sighed, sliding a manila file across the desk. "Victim's name was Clara Hensley. Twenty-seven. Worked at the diner on Main."
"Any family?"
"None left. Just like the others."
Aiden frowned. "Others?"
Marlowe hesitated. "This makes four, Aiden. Four in the past two months. All the same—ripped apart, half-eaten, no tracks that make sense."
"Why wasn't I called sooner?"
"Because I didn't want you back here." The chief's tone softened. "After what happened to your old man…"
"I can handle it."
"I know you can. That's what scares me."
Aiden's jaw clenched. "You think I'm losing it."
"I think Black Hollow has a way of breaking people."
There was a long silence. Rain began to patter against the window.
Finally, Marlowe spoke again, voice low. "You still believe it, don't you? The curse. The wolves."
Aiden looked away. "Belief doesn't matter. The evidence does."
But deep down, he knew the truth: belief was all that ever mattered here.
---
That night, Aiden returned to his motel—a decaying building on the edge of town that smelled faintly of mold and whiskey. He placed the pendant on the table, staring at it as if it could answer the questions clawing at his mind.
The mark of the Black Hollow Pack.
He opened his father's old journal—its pages yellowed, edges burned. Drawings of wolves, half-human sketches, ritual symbols.
One passage caught his eye, scrawled in his father's hand:
> "They say the curse was born of betrayal. Blood for blood, moon for moon. The pack feeds on regret, and only through rebirth can it be broken."
Rebirth.
Aiden closed the book, feeling the ache of memory in his chest. His father's face, his screams, the fire. He had tried to forget. But Black Hollow had a way of dragging the past out of its grave.
He poured himself a drink, but before he could lift it to his lips, a sound broke through the night.
A howl.
Long. Low. Agonizing.
He froze.
It wasn't far—somewhere near the edge of town.
Grabbing his coat and gun, Aiden rushed outside. The moon hung swollen and pale above the mist. The streets were empty, silent. But the air pulsed with something alive—something ancient.
The howl came again, closer this time. Then another. And another.
Multiple voices.
Aiden's pulse raced. He followed the sound through the alleyways, past shuttered windows and flickering street lamps, until he reached the old churchyard.
The gate creaked open under his hand. The graves glistened with dew.
And there, at the far end, stood a figure.
Tall. Barefoot. Naked except for the blood splattered across his chest. His eyes gleamed gold in the moonlight.
Aiden raised his gun. "Stay where you are!"
The man turned slowly. His lips curled—not in fear, but in a grin that revealed sharp, unnatural teeth.
Then he spoke, voice raw and guttural. "Welcome home, Cross."
Before Aiden could react, the man lunged—too fast, too strong. The gun went flying. They hit the ground hard. Aiden struggled, landing a punch that did nothing.
The man's skin rippled, bones cracking, muscles contorting. A snarl erupted as his face elongated, fur bursting from beneath his flesh.
Aiden's scream was swallowed by the night as the creature roared—a sound that seemed to shake the earth itself.
He reached for his knife, slashing wildly. The blade caught the creature's shoulder. It howled, rearing back—then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it bolted into the darkness, vanishing into the mist.
Aiden lay there, chest heaving, staring up at the moon.
Blood dripped from his arm—his own, mingled with the creature's. It burned like fire.
When he touched it, his skin prickled. His vision blurred. The world tilted sideways.
And somewhere, faint and distant, he heard a whisper that wasn't his own:
> "The curse remembers its own."
Then everything went black.
When Aiden woke, dawn had broken. The sky was bruised purple and gold. He was lying on the church steps, his clothes torn, his head pounding.
The blood on his arm had dried to a strange, silvery sheen.
He stumbled to his feet, gripping the railing for balance. Every sound was sharp—the flap of a bird's wings, the rush of wind through leaves, the distant heartbeat of something alive.
His reflection in the church window stopped him cold.
For just an instant, he saw something that wasn't entirely human staring back—eyes rimmed with amber light.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Aiden exhaled shakily. "What the hell is happening to me…"
In the silence that followed, a raven landed on the church cross, its black feathers glinting in the sun. It cawed once—loud, shrill, almost mocking—then flew off toward the woods.
The same woods where the curse had been born.
Aiden tightened his jaw, the ache of determination cutting through the fear.
He had come to Black Hollow to find a killer.
Now, he feared he was becoming one.
And somewhere deep in the forest, a pack was watching.
Waiting.
Their lost brother had finally come home.