Evelyn didn't sleep that night.
She kept the journal beside her in bed like it could protect her. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the glass made her heart slam against her ribs.
And then, just past 2:00 a.m., she heard it again.
Low.
Animal.
Wrong.
A sound so deep it rattled the windows and vibrated through her bones.
She sat up in bed, holding her breath.
The growl became a snarl, echoing from the woods.
Then came the silence.
That kind of silence that doesn't come from quiet—but from something listening.
She pulled the curtain back just a little.
And froze.
There—just beyond the trees, maybe thirty feet away—two glowing eyes stared back.
Not amber. Not red.
Silver.
Like moonlight trapped in rage.
---
She stumbled back from the window and grabbed her phone.
No signal. Of course.
Her breath came fast. "It's just an animal," she whispered. "A bear. A wild dog. Not some cursed creature from a damn journal."
But deep down, she didn't believe that.
The eyes hadn't moved.
They just… watched.
Until she blinked.
Gone.
---
She forced herself back to sleep—barely. Her dreams were twisted and hot, filled with dark woods and voices calling her name. A silhouette stood at the edge of a fire, clawed hands reaching out. But instead of pulling her into pain, it pulled her into something darker.
Desire.
Possession.
Fate.
---
By morning, she found her front porch torn apart.
Deep claw marks gouged the wood. Not scratch marks. Not vandalism.
Claws.
Each mark spaced too far apart for a human or bear. The door had been tested—but not broken. It was like whatever it was had tried… and then changed its mind.
She called the sheriff.
He came alone. Examined the marks. Didn't even fake surprise.
Just gave her a long look and said, "I warned you. Some things ain't meant to be disturbed."
When she pressed him for answers, all he said was, "Full moon's in six days. Don't go wandering. And if I were you, I'd leave this place while I still could."
Then he left.
---
Later that night, Evelyn opened her grandmother's journal again.
One final entry on the last page chilled her blood:
> "He won't hurt you—not at first. That's the trick."
"He speaks with a voice like broken thunder. His hands—part man, part monster—will cradle you before they crush you."
"And when you begin to love him... it will already be too late."
---