The moon didn't rise; it loomed. It was a bloated, predatory eye in a sky the color of a fresh bruise. By the time Clara and Reid reached the ranger station's sub-basement, the air between them had become thick with the smell of ozone and Reid's sweat.
He wasn't the man she had met on the porch anymore. His skin looked like it was being pulled too tight over a frame that was growing by the minute. His speech had disintegrated into a series of jagged, monosyllabic breaths.
"Go," he choked out, his hand white-knuckled on the frame of the heavy steel door. "Clara… the bolts. Lock them. Don't… don't listen."
"I'm right here," she said, her voice a fragile tether. "I'm not leaving the hallway."
She watched him step into the concrete room. He moved to the center, his movements jerky and uncoordinated, and began the ritual he had performed a hundred times alone. He sat on the floor and fastened the heavy iron shackles around his own ankles. His hands were shaking so violently he fumbled with the locks.
"Let me," Clara whispered, stepping forward.
"No!" he roared, the sound echoing off the concrete walls like a physical blow. He finally snapped the last lock shut. "Close the door."
Clara retreated, pulling the heavy steel slab shut. The sound of the bolts sliding home felt like a sentence. She sat on the cold floor of the hallway, her back against the metal, and pulled her father's favorite book of poetry from her bag.
On the other side of the door, the screaming began.
It wasn't a human scream. It was the sound of something being unmade the wet, sickening crunch of bones elongating and snapping, the sound of muscle fibers tearing and reweaving at a speed that defied nature. Clara pressed her hands over her ears, her eyes stinging with tears. She had restored books that had been burned, water-damaged, and shredded, but she had never heard a person being broken.
"Reid?" she called out, her voice cracking. "Listen to me. 'The woods are lovely, dark and deep...' "
She began to read. She read Frost, she read Whitman, she read anything to fill the silence between the sounds of the beast. For a while, the violence in the room seemed to rhythmically respond to her voice. There would be a heavy thud against the door, followed by a low, vibrating growl that felt like it was trying to form words.
Suddenly, the station above them groaned.
Clara froze. She heard the distinct crunch of boots on the gravel outside, then the sound of the front door being kicked in.
"Ranger Blackwood!" a voice shouted. It was Deputy Miller. "We know you're in here. We saw the lights. We've got a dozen men who want to know why you're hiding while the ridge is crawling with wolves."
Clara stood up, her heart leaping into her throat. If they came down here, they would see the cage. They would see the man-turned-monster, and they would kill him.
"Reid," she whispered at the door. "Quiet. Please, stay quiet."
Inside the room, the scratching stopped. The low growls ceased. There was a silence so profound it was more terrifying than the screaming.
The basement door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Flashlight beams cut through the gloom of the hallway, landing on Clara.
"Miss Vaughn?" Miller's voice was suspicious. He stepped down the stairs, his shotgun cradled in his arm. "What are you doing down here in the dark?"
"I'm... I'm looking for some old records," Clara lied, her voice surprisingly steady. "Reid said they were down here. He's out on the ridge, Deputy. He went out an hour ago to try and divert the pack away from the town."
Miller walked closer, his eyes fixed on the heavy steel door behind her. "Is that so? Then what's behind that door? It looks like a vault."
"It's the old fire-suppression system," Clara said, stepping in front of the door. "It's pressurized. Very dangerous if you open it without the right equipment."
Miller reached out, his hand hovering over the bolt. "You're a bad liar, Clara. I can smell the heat coming off this door. And I can hear the breathing."
Just as Miller's fingers touched the metal, a massive weight slammed into the door from the inside. The steel buckled outward, the hinges screaming. Miller tumbled back, his shotgun clattering to the floor.
A howl erupted from the other side a sound so pure, so ancient, and so full of agony that the men at the top of the stairs fled back into the night.
"It's in there!" Miller scrambled back, grabbing his gun. "The thing from the ridge! It's in the vault!"
"Run, Miller!" Clara screamed, grabbing his arm. "If you stay here, it will kill you! Get the men out of here!"
Miller didn't need a second warning. The terror in that howl was enough to break the resolve of any hunter. He turned and bolted up the stairs, his boots thundering as he ran for his life.
Clara turned back to the door. The metal was hot to the touch. The dent in the steel was the size of a man's torso.
"Reid?" she whispered, her forehead against the vibrating metal.
A low whine came from the other side. A wet, huffing breath. Then, a heavy paw claws scratching against the steel slid down the door.
"I'm still here," she said, sliding back down to the floor. "I'm not going anywhere. 'But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep...' "
She sat there for the rest of the night, reading to a dented door, while the town of Oakhaven armed itself for a war it couldn't win. Inside the room, the wolf lay against the door, his heart beating in sync with the woman who refused to believe he was gone.