The night deepened. A round white moon hung high in the sky, casting silver light over the mountains, trees, and snow-covered ground. Moonlight and snow intertwined in a soft, cold beauty—quiet, and almost sacred.
Loren huddled beneath the white fur blanket, warm and snug, but restless within his shelter of branches and tarp.
That stillness shattered with a sudden, agonizing cry.
"Ugh—ahhh…"
"Ah!"
Bates's pained, guttural voice echoed from the cave—low at first, then rising, strained and desperate, as if he were writhing on the ground in unbearable pain.
"AHHH!"
The cries peaked, hoarse and raw, and then… silence.
A moment later:
Awoooo~
A sharp, wild howl cut through the night, echoing across the mountains like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Loren's face went pale.
Crunch.
The sound of claws scraping against stone echoed in the cold air. The beast inside clawed at the rock—again and again—then slammed its body against the walls in frustration, seeking a way out.
Loren drew a shaky breath and forced himself to stay calm. He had to leave. No one could predict whether Grandpa Bates, once transformed, could still recognize friend from foe.
He packed his bag quickly and slipped away beneath the moonlight, snow crunching beneath his hurried steps. Soon, he was running.
By the time he returned to the cabin, the windproof tarp had a long tear down the middle.
Loren went inside, scooped a handful of snow into the stove, and lit a fire to melt it. As warmth spread through the room, he took a sip of water and sat down, organizing the torrent of thoughts surging in his mind.
Grandpa Bates… was a werewolf.
He transformed uncontrollably each full moon. That's why he vanished into the mountains every month. That's why he returned so weak and haggard.
It all fit now. His strange habits, the monthly disappearances, the old rumors whispered in the village below—they weren't superstition or misunderstanding. They were protection. Warnings. Maybe started by someone who knew, maybe by Bates himself.
But one mystery solved only unearthed others.
Why would a man like Bates take in a child at all? He would be far safer alone.
Were they actually related? If not, then why had the church and government placed him here?
Was this truly the England of the 1980s that Loren once knew?
If werewolves were real… what else was? Vampires? Sorcerers? What role did the church and the state really play in such a world?
And those two books—was alchemy really just myth? Or something more?
And what about that old bookseller?
But most urgently… should he leave? Should he run from Grandpa Bates?
The thoughts spiraled, unresolved. In the end, one truth stood firm: a ten-year-old child couldn't survive on his own.
Loren pictured Grandpa Bates's wrinkled, wind-burnt face—the gentle smile when he encouraged Loren's dreams, the gruff scolding when he ran outside in just a shirt, the pale weakness after each trip into the mountains.
He hadn't realized how much time had passed. How close they'd become.
No. He would wait.
Grandpa Bates deserved that much trust.
And so, Loren curled into his small bed, and fell asleep.
By morning, the world was bright again. Snow sparkled outside the window.
Loren walked to the sheepfold, milked the goats, boiled the milk, and sipped the warm liquid until he felt refreshed.
He let his worries go.
No matter how complicated things seemed, there was nothing he could do about them now.
Bates was still Grandpa Bates. Whatever else he might be, the man had raised him with care and affection. That was enough for now.
With that thought, a burden lifted from his heart.
The sky shone bright and clear, sunlight bouncing off the snow and lighting up the world—and Loren's thoughts—with fresh clarity.
This world is fascinating. Maybe he really would meet more extraordinary people. Maybe… he'd become one himself.
His imagination leapt from vampire hunters to superheroes—DC, Marvel—and suddenly, the day felt lighter.
That afternoon, Bates came trudging down from the mountain, his figure tired but upright.
"Grandpa, you're back!" Loren called out when he spotted him from afar.
"Yeah," Bates replied.
He looked at Loren, now growing into a young man, and something caught in his throat. So many emotions—relief, pride, fear—rose all at once, leaving him momentarily speechless.
He remembered the kitten-like child who first arrived. Now, Loren was ten, and capable of climbing the mountain on his own.
When Bates had emerged from the cave that morning, he'd found the shelter Loren had built. It was well-constructed, even if the boy hadn't managed to start a fire.
Bates felt both reassured and uneasy. How much had the child seen?
Some truths, he had once vowed to carry to the grave. But perhaps he had underestimated Loren's intelligence—and resilience.
"I made lamb stew with potatoes and macaroni," Loren said, ignoring Bates's troubled expression.
Bates let out a long sigh of relief. "What a hardworking boy."
He wasn't ready to talk. Not yet. First, he needed food. He was still so weak.
Later, after the final bite of lamb chop, Bates leaned back with a satisfied groan.
"Even if we use the same ingredients, your cooking is always better than mine."
Loren raised an eyebrow. "It's a talent."
They cleaned up together, then sat on the front steps. The moon hung low in the sky again, casting its silver veil across the snowy mountains.
"Want to hear a story from an old man?" Bates asked, voice quieter now, almost solemn.
"Experience is wisdom," Loren replied.
"Forty years ago, I was a young man…"
Bates began.
He had served during the tail end of World War II—not on the front lines, but still in danger. During one supply mission through the mountains, his unit was ambushed by an elite enemy squad.
Pursued and cut off from the main force, Bates and his team pushed deeper into the forest, hoping to circle back later.
That's when they found it: a large wooden house, not unlike their own—but bigger.
Inside, past the usual furnishings, they found a strange room built like a cage.
A middle-aged woman lay inside, asleep, behind bars secured by three or four iron locks the size of footballs. The key lay nearby. They opened the door and woke her.
She warned them at once: she was a werewolf. Every full moon, she lost control. She'd locked herself away in advance.
She begged them to leave.
But the younger men were reckless, desperate. Some thought: If we could become werewolves too, maybe we could fight our way out.
Three agreed to stay. The rest, including Bates, left with their belief in humanity and the light of faith still intact.
Loren leaned in. "So what happened? Why did you become a werewolf?"
Bates exhaled a long, pained breath.
"Fate," he said. "It never follows the paths we imagine."
The three who stayed turned into werewolves. They slaughtered the enemy troops with terrifying ease.
Then… they followed the scent of blood and found their comrades.
"I watched them tear my friends to pieces," Bates whispered. "The moonlight that night… it looked like blood."
By dawn, only he remained alive.
The werewolf soldiers, horrified by what they'd done, ended their own lives.
Bates, wounded but alive, later discovered bite marks on his arm.
"I returned to England with their suicide notes… and a heart full of dread. I carried their last wishes to their families."
Afterwards, he intended to return home, live quietly.
Passing through this remote town, he faced his first full moon.
Ignoring the villagers' warnings, he climbed the mountain and hid.
"When I woke up… it was near this cabin," he said. "The forest was torn apart. Animals shredded. Blood everywhere."
That was the beginning of the rumors.
Bates never returned home. His family assumed he had died in the war.
He settled here. Alone.
Never marrying. Never going back.