The moon hung heavy in the sky, bleeding silver across a dense forest soaked in mist. Trees blurred past like ghosts as a woman ran barefoot, breathless, clutching a wailing baby tight to her chest. Her eyes were wild with fear. Behind her, the night roared.
Wolves.
Not ordinary ones. Bigger. Faster. Eyes glowing red like embers, jaws snapping. A whole pack of them relentless, unstoppable, chasing her through the trees like shadows with teeth.
But she wasn't alone.
Beside her ran a massive wolf. Its fur was pitch-black with streaks of silver down its back. Eyes like burning ice. Every muscle in its body screamed power. It lunged at the pursuers, teeth slashing, fighting them off one by one to buy the woman more time.
The woman screamed as one wolf got too close it nearly grabbed her leg. The black wolf roared, sending shockwaves through the forest, and charged with blinding fury.
The baby cried louder.
Suddenly, the woman stumbled.
She fell.
The baby flew from her arms and the dream shattered.
Damon jolted awake, heart pounding. His shirt clung to his skin, soaked with sweat. The echo of the woman's scream still rang in his ears.
He sat up in bed, gasping.
"What the hell was that…?"
It wasn't the first time he'd had that dream.
But tonight… the baby's eyes were glowing.
Just like his had, the first time he got angry.
Damon rubbed his eyes, his breath finally slowing. The dream was fading, but not the feeling. His chest still felt tight like something from that forest had followed him into the real world.
He swung his legs out of bed and stood. The wooden floor of his room creaked beneath his feet. His room was small, simple. A single bed, a dusty window, a battered dresser. It still smelled faintly of smoke from the old fireplace.
Outside, the morning was quiet, but not still.
He stepped out of his room, bare feet brushing against the cool cement of the hallway, and made his way toward the front door. The early sun filtered through the trees in golden rays, painting the front porch in soft light.
He squinted. Someone was already up.
His grandmother.
She was in the garden behind the house, bent low, her fingers moving through a patch of herbs like she was searching for something specific. A basket hung from her elbow, already half full with green leaves and strange roots.
Damon stepped onto the porch and leaned against the wooden frame.
"You're up early," he said.
His grandmother didn't look up.
"You're sweating like a goat," she replied, calm as ever. "Dream again?"
Damon hesitated. "Yeah. Wolves this time."
That made her pause. Just for a moment. Then she stood slowly and turned to face him. Her face was weathered but strong, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Same dream as before?" she asked.
He nodded. "Woman running with a baby. Same black wolf protecting her. Same red-eyed ones chasing them."
She studied him, then went back to picking herbs. "Dreams don't come for no reason. Especially not over and over."
"They're just dreams, Grandma."
She gave a soft chuckle, low and knowing. "Maybe. Or maybe something's trying to wake up."
Damon frowned. "What do you mean?"
She didn't answer just plucked a final leaf and dropped it into the basket.
"Come help me with this. We've got things to prepare today."
He stepped off the porch, still uneasy. The wolves were gone, the screams silent. But something lingered.
The way the baby's glowing eyes had looked at him…
Like they knew him.
The sun climbed higher as Damon helped his grandmother with the herbs, but his mind was still stuck in the dream.
By mid-morning, he'd finished his chores and taken a cold shower. The sharp sting of the water helped clear his head but only a little.
He threw on a faded black t-shirt and jeans, grabbed his old phone, and headed out on foot. The town was small, quiet, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone and secrets didn't stay buried for long. Still, Damon kept to himself. He preferred it that way.
He took the long path through the woods, his usual shortcut into town. The trees whispered around him, thick with the scent of pine and earth. A breeze moved through the branches, carrying something strange with it a faint metallic scent, sharp and sour, like blood.
He stopped walking.
What the hell?
He sniffed the air again, but it was gone.
Just my imagination. Or maybe I'm losing it.
He pushed the thought aside and kept walking
The town center was quiet. A few shopkeepers were setting up their stalls, kids ran past with cold drinks, and a group of teens sat outside the café, laughing way too loudly. Damon didn't stop to talk to anyone. He wasn't good at small talk and most of them avoided him anyway.
He ducked into the only bookstore in town, the bell above the door jingling softly.
"Morning, Damon," came a voice from behind the counter.
It was Mr. Zac, the owner mid-fifties, always reading something dusty, and one of the few adults who didn't treat Damon like a ticking time bomb.
"Morning," Damon muttered.
"Big week coming up, huh? College man now."
Damon nodded. "Yeah. Just grabbing something to read before the madness starts."
Mr. Zac smiled and waved toward the shelves. "Go wild."
Damon wandered through the aisles, but his eyes weren't really on the books. His thoughts drifted to the dream, the glowing eyes, the strange scent in the woods.
He reached out to pull a novel from the shelf, but just before his fingers touched it
CRASH.
The shelf next to him trembled. A stack of books fell to the floor.
He hadn't touched anything.
He froze.
Mr. Zac poked his head around the corner. "Everything alright?"
Damon stared at the books.
"Yeah. Must've been loose."
But his fingers were still tingling.